


we will still need a song

by forallthewords



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Love, High School, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forallthewords/pseuds/forallthewords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school AU inspired by the first season of Glee.  Jensen's had his goals mapped out and plotted since he was old enough to stand in front of a mic stand.  But when super-jock Jared Padalecki joins Glee Club, Jensen's world gets turned upside down, and he finds he might have more to learn about himself (and the good-looking football player) than he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we will still need a song

**Author's Note:**

> Co-authored with freedom_jones. Thank you to indysaur for being generous with her suggestions and time as our beta.

♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♮ ♯ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♮ ♯ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♮ ♯ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♮ ♯ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♮ ♯ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♮ ♯ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♮ ♯

****  
ACT ONE  


Christ on a cracker, Jensen is way too good for this.

Being a prodigy stuck in public high school sucks. Jensen's had his goals mapped out and plotted in various forms—graph, chart, scrapbook—since he was old enough to stand in front of a mic stand. The most important being: 

Make music.

Become _famous_.

Given his talent and dedication thereof, it often comes as a surprise to Jensen that he's not more popular than he figures he should be. Not that he wants to bump elbows with the football players or trade hair-dyeing tips with the cheerleaders, but it would be nice if, say, people didn't throw slushies in his face. Just saying, that might be awesome. Because if he comes home one more time with an artificial stain around the collar of another cashmere sweater, yeah. Jensen is probably going to march upstairs and hang himself.

Not that Jensen Ackles is dramatic. He's not! He's never been. Years straight of taking the lead in almost every production of his various school’s flimsy drama clubs aside. Because that right there? That just showcases his wide and impressive range of performance-related diversity. 

And currently his brilliance is being put to the test.

Mr. Morgan took over Glee Club three days ago, which at first seemed like an astronomical leap up from Mr. Marsters and his habit of giving away leads to those with the largest cup-size. And as for the ugly rumors floating around that Jensen was the one who told the principal about Marsters totally feeling up Michelle Trachtenberg—who, by the way, is a talentless hack—and got him fired? Well, whatever. Jensen is above defending himself against high school gossip. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter because whoever the person was that exposed the _disgusting_ goings-on behind the Glee Club curtains, they certainly did the right thing! And if Jensen just so happened to get the lead vocals on "Since U Been Gone" once Michelle dropped out, well, obviously he deserved it.

Jensen is quickly realizing, though, that it wasn't a perverted show choir coach holding them back. It's everyone else.

Jensen shucks off the top hat required for their number (as if the song wasn’t lame enough to begin with), making it skitter up three rows into the empty auditorium. 

Danneel's way off. Chad keeps flipping out of his wheelchair, on purpose, flopping around like a dillhole until someone helps him up. The solos aren't working. The choreography sucks. And Mr. Morgan stands left center, rubbing circles into his temples. 

So the top hat goes, and then Jensen with it, storming off the stage. Behind him he hears a crash, then a melodramatic wail for help from Chad, then Chad laughing.

Jensen huffs out a breath and heads for the exit. “Hey!” Mr. Morgan calls after him, but the door slams shut behind him and Jensen heads for open air.

He's already got the sun-warmed aluminum of the bleacher’s seats beneath him by the time his coach catches up. Mr. Morgan eases onto the row behind Jensen, slow and awkward in his movement. Like after graduation all things high school are deleted from memory, simple things like sitting in the stands. Even if you try to recycle your formative years by coming back to teach. 

Rocking forward, Mr. Morgan says, “It was a crappy rehearsal.”

Understatement. That's like saying Radiohead is better than Coldplay. Yeah, no shit. 

“Okay, it was a seriously crappy rehearsal,” Mr. Morgan admits, sighing. There's a _but_ in there. “You can't run out like that.”

Every day Jensen comes to school, and every morning, it's the same thing. It's kids huddled up into groups. The popular kids, the geeks, cheerleaders, the stoners. It doesn't matter. They've all got someone. And he's got this. And if _this_ is Chad goofing off and Danneel holding them back time after time by not learning her lines, then it's not good enough. He’s done wasting his time. 

“Just,” Mr. Morgan starts, trying to catch Jensen’s eye, “I’ve got something. A surprise.” He glances down at his watch, then, “Five more minutes. Will you come back?”

Jensen thinks his scowl is answer clear enough. 

Morgan scrubs his hands over his knees. “Look, kiddo, you’re the best I’ve got. I need you to come in there and try for me.”

“You need me?” 

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “We all need you in there, Ackles. It’d be a mess without you. Right?”

Yeah, that much is certain. Jensen’s never had anyone tell him that they _need_ him before. It feels sorta... well, it feels pretty nice.

He nods his head slowly, twice. “Okay. But you’ve got to get Chad to cut it out or I’m going to dump him out of that wheelchair myself.” 

Mr. Morgan gives him a tired nod, a pat on the back, and that’s how, five minutes later, Jensen finds himself back in the auditorium, his jaw dropping as Mr. Morgan, on his third day as choir coach, drags in a jock. A _jock_. A football-playing, Abercrombie-wearing, totally-built jock.

Pushing the new guy on stage, Mr. Morgan smiles. It's the kind of smile that implies a certain smug, self-congratulating happiness, and sure enough, Mr. Morgan announces, “This is it,” as he claps the guy on the back.

Katie Cassidy’s every stance involves a hand on her hip, the subtle variations of which can signal everything from casual to menstruating bitch. Her reaction now involves a two-part hand-on-hip deal. Part one says, _Oh, god no. Not another pretty boy to add to the meat factory._ Part two goes, _So, can he sing? Because he really is pretty and, hey, sometimes duets require kissing and junk._ The first part edges the second out of the way and she bites out, “What's this?” with a dismissive wave of her hand in the jock’s direction.

Mr. Morgan is oblivious to Katie’s vocal equivalent of a sneer. He shoves the new guy forward—new guy who looks like he's stumbled into the wrong room and is waiting for the soonest available second to bail—and announces, “Jared Padalecki, say hello to these guys.”

These guys. _Whatever_. They have a name. A collective title that was actually sort of inspiring, in the way that Jensen finds anything and everything Ayn Rand writes to cause an inner-stirring. They’re Lost and Found, come on. 

Jensen wouldn’t ever admit it out loud, but when Chad rolls his eyes, grabs his guitar, and mutters, “Whatever,” Jensen feels a little appreciation, almost. Almost.

Jared tries a smile. A small, sarcastic wave. “Hey.”

Mr. Morgan is still beaming, pleased with his own doings. “He's it. He's our missing piece.”

Genevieve asks, “Since when did we start missing a piece?” It's bitchy.

Some of the wind goes out of Mr. Morgan’s sails. “It's a saying.”

“Well, 1962 called,” Genevieve says plainly, picking at one black-lacquered fingernail, “and they want it back.”

Jensen nods towards the new guy. This jock who he's noticed around. Tall and well-muscled, and, okay, _really_ good-looking, he’s kinda hard to miss. “Can you sing?”

New guy glances towards Mr. Morgan, like he's looking for some kind of affirmation, or permission. “Uh?”

“Yeah,” says Mr. Morgan, and his smile is back, big. “He can sing.”

He lets that sit for a few seconds, the notion settling in, then the smile leaves his face and he gets serious, quick, direction taking over. “We're going to sing.”

A slight flush of excitement ripples through the group, but by the time it reaches Jensen, it's faded into doubt and annoyance. They've been in here, working their asses off, or... okay, half-assing, but still. They've put effort into making what little they have work, and now, because Mr. Morgan drags in some jock god off the football field, they're some sudden completion? Seriously. 

Mr. Morgan looks the group over, holds up his hands. “Hey, have I led you wrong so far?”

It'd probably be bad form for Jensen to mention his strong dislike for their debut number, which involves not only the top hat but a suit and cane, like they're a bunch of Little Miss Sunshines strutting it up for their stage moms. Jensen makes a face of distaste, accompanied by a strong twitch-like jerk of the shoulder.

“So, come on. Give it a try! Trust me on this.” 

Jensen angles his head, lets Jared pan into view. Still awkwardly loitering around, hands in his pockets, like someone tossed into the wild animal exhibit at the zoo, afraid of all the roaming show choir members. There's something about him, though, in his presence, that makes Jensen want to believe Mr. Morgan. Or maybe Jensen's just inherently a sucker, an optimist, a goddamn hopeful; who knows.

With some resignation, Jensen huffs, “Fine,” before reluctantly spinning to the group's side.

“Okay!” booms Mr. Morgan, corralling everyone close. “Here's what we're doing.”

What they end up doing is standing in a long line, evenly-spaced in the middle of the stage, mics dragged up, front and center. Katie at the lead, Jared pulling up the end, and Jensen smooshed in the space between, alongside Genevieve and Danneel. Which is okay. Being pushed to second string. To the middle. Totally fine.

Mr. Morgan starts the music, and the opening chords to _Grease_ 's “You're the One That I Want” fill the auditorium.

“I want everyone singing so loud I can see tonsil!” he shouts over the music. “Let's go!”

Jared begins softly, which makes Jensen cringe a little. You belt, okay? You open your mouth and you belt it out. But before that thought can even fully connect, Jared's singing, actually _singing_ , and in this over-the-top, on-the-spot instant, he _gets_ it. God, he gets it. Jensen glances at Mr. Morgan, whose smile is stretched far and wide, takes another look down the line at Jared, and suddenly there's this explosion of joy going off inside.

Katie's doing her thing, and even Danneel can’t forget lines when they pretty much consist of _do-do-do_ , but here, _here_ is someone who can _sing_.

Jensen feels the swell and tug of inspiration and opens his mouth, big, gives it all he has.

Suddenly the music cuts off.

“Dude,” laughs Chad.

Katie stomps out of formation and says, “What are you _doing_?” Funny thing is, she's shooting it at Jensen.

“What?” he balks, quick to get defensive. They sounded amazing! What's up with all the glares and snickering and—

“It's okay!” Mr. Morgan rushes to say, jumping on stage. “You guys, you were great. Good job. Just, hmm. Jensen, maybe on the next run through—”

“Don't sing my part!” Katie butts in, and muffled laughter rumbles through the group until it hits Jared, who sniggers, then covers it up with a cough and a hand over his mouth. 

Jensen feels a strong urge to slide through the cracks of the stage into a puddle of melted embarrassment, but Mr. Morgan says, “Okay, guys, get it together,” and everyone straightens into place. The music eventually starts back up, and Jensen keeps his lid on tight, even though it's so not a big deal that he got a little over-excited and sang another person's part just because there was finally someone else he could partner with. Really, it's not a big deal.

When Katie picks up her verse, he feels a set of eyes on him. Jared. And instead of the expected razzing, he's smiling, all slouched shoulders and a lazy, upturned mouth.

So, right. Not a big deal at all. 

 

~♫~

 

Jensen’s enthusiasm is still riding high by the time he gets home. The door slams behind him, making him wince. He tosses his school bag halfway up the stairs and moves to the kitchen where he catches sight of the note stuck to the front of the fridge: _Working late. Order in._

There's a twenty beneath a cheesy magnet shaped like a martini glass, and beside it, takeout menus from every place in a twenty-mile radius that delivers. 

The perks of Jensen's childhood rarely included the actual presence of his father, whose authority as a formidable lawyer sometimes led to settled cases that made the local news. Or his mother, who ignored her reputation as a washed-up, long-forgotten child star, and believed that her children—following in the footsteps of her own perceived talent—were going to be tap-dancing, vocally brilliant, jazz-handed little Shirley Temples and Michael Jacksons, headed straight for the bright lights and fame of Hollywood. Turns out she only had enough selflessness in her to pop Jensen out, push his toddler butt into the earliest available dance class, and afford him the courtesy of her annual practice of mailing out impersonal, autographed cards from the other side of the country; the same ones she sent to her agent. 

His dad, on the other hand, used up enough cash to buy Manhattan in those early years on babysitters, daycares, and any class that ran late into the evening. There was karate, where Jensen, even at a tender young age, regarded the requisite all-white wardrobe as a fashion offense. Tee Ball was next, but it turned out that Jensen’s otherwise large pool of motor skills did not so much include whacking at balls with bats. After that, Jensen figured that so long as he was being forced to do something, it might as well be something he liked; and when he dropped a note to his mom and told her he was learning how to play the piano _and_ taking singing lessons _and_ giving the dancing another go, she was happy, she said. 

These were the perks Jensen held onto. Honing a talent that, according to his mom, was there from the moment she gave him life. Not memories of holidays around a lit-up Christmas tree, or of summer vacations to Disneyland, and especially not the stupid memories, ones where parents said things like _Remember the time Jensen couldn't say the word 'spaghetti'_? 

Jensen leaves the twenty on the fridge and pulls out a bottled water instead. The urge to eat will hit sooner or later, but right now he's thinking music. He's thinking Jared, too, but he's also thinking about how seriously creepy that is. He doesn’t want to start pining after some dude who, until today, he only ever thought of peripherally, and who, by the way, is also the All-American poster boy for heterosexuality. 

Last year, Jensen came out to his mother in a Christmas card. Right there, beneath all that well-wishing and peace-on-Earth-ing, he’d told her. She hadn't said anything back, but her card came the following week without any disownment papers attached, so he figures they're on good enough terms. His dad asked him three months prior to that, point blank, if Jensen had something he maybe wanted to get off his chest. And when Jensen, stalling because he figured hell might rain down upon him, just took a deep breath and came out with it, the old man actually accepted it with something like grace. He didn't unleash any doves and start up the orchestra or whatever, but he didn't dropkick Jensen into next week, either. 

Upstairs, Jensen powers up his laptop. He spends a lot of time fiddling around on the Internet before setting up his tripod, mostly because he gets stuck reading the comments about the videos he’d already posted onto his MySpace. For every _’keep it up, you rock!'_ comment, there's another that says otherwise. Usually, from Sophia Bush, and Alona Tal, and the rest of the bitchier cheerleaders; and even though the jabs are coming from a place of what-is-certainly petty jealousy, they seriously mess up his mojo. This is why Jensen silently (mostly) resents the fact that his dad believes packing him into a public school will toughen him up. _Do you good to learn how to take one like a man_. 

The kids he attends school with have no respect or appreciation for talent or the arts. They say he looks _fat_ in his latest video, and that's just—it's way off, is what it is! Jensen dedicates himself to a very precise workout regimen. Everything in his closet is tailored to display his best, well, assets. Otherwise it’d still be left hanging on its store rack. 

Jensen checks the mirror. He slides a hand under his chin, feels nothing. No loose skin, no rolls, no second or third or fourth chins. I mean, his neck is a little wide, but they can't seriously be calling him a fatass because he has a thick and manly neck, right? 

Deciding it's not even worth it to care—though he does do a couple of quick mouth exercises to keep the skin over his jaw and throat stretched tight—he goes back to his computer and pores through his iTunes playlist. Jensen’s not one to brag, but his library is seriously kick-ass, loaded with thousands and thousands of songs. Jensen loves music the way the rest of his school loves and accepts _The Hills_ as a valid form of entertainment. Classical, folk, show tunes, pop, Southern rock, jazz. From A.A. Bondy to Zee Avi. He's a fan.

Song choice is a very serious deal. You pick the wrong song, one that doesn't connect with the audience, and it doesn't matter how awesome your vocals sound, you're going to come off flat. Pick a contemporary that's too well known, and people expect a carbon copy; you sing “Goodbye My Lover” they want to _hear_ James Blunt and, dude. Jensen is no James Blunt. No way is he that whiny. 

Jensen takes a deep breath and stares into the lens of his camera, puts on a smile. 

 

~~~~ ♫~~~~

 

Not that he's some kind of fanny-pack-wearing freak who gets his jollies from playing matchmaker, but en route to Steadman High to scope out Lost and Found’s competition, Jensen overhears Jared telling Danneel that he’s not too stoked about joining the club. This is worrying, for Jensen, obviously, but he quickly comes up with a plan to make Jared stick around. This scheme basically involves pimping Jared out to one of the glee club girls, but Jensen is pretty okay with that.

Danneel bitches all the time about 'equal singing rights' and 'this isn't just your road to _American Idol_ , Ackles'. She’s the most popular member of their small yet select group, which means she’s already in with Jared and his crowd, but. She also puts out. A lot. Which would be fine, great even, for a temporary fix, but Jensen needs someone who will lock Jared in for the long haul.

Genevieve is probably a lesbian. That is Jensen's official opinion.

Which leaves Katie. 

Standing in line with Jared for overpriced, grossly-processed refreshments, Jensen asks, “So what do you think of Katie?” Jared pauses, giving him a crooked eyebrow. Which, whatever. Guys ask other guys about girls all the time. It's definitely not weird. “I mean, I think the other members might be expecting you two to, you know...” He trails off with a hand-wave. The suggested hook-up implied. 

“Why?” Jared asks, scanning the candy behind the display counter.

“Well,” Jensen says slowly, “you’re fresh meat. You're like the hot new guy and Katie is the female lead. Plus, she's gorgeous. Don’t you think so? Have you seen that shirt she's got on today? The cut of the neckline really accentuates her—”

“Jensen!” Jared hisses, checking for Mr. Morgan, who's at least two people behind them and, therefore, geographically considered out of hearing range. “Why don't _you_ hook up with Katie, you think she's such hot stuff?” 

“Oh, I... um,” Jensen stammers, ducking his head. “She's, uh, you know, not really my type.” 

“I’ll bet,” Jared replies, mouth quirking up. Then, “I already have a girlfriend.” 

_No_ , Jensen thinks, _you don’t_. Jared has Sophia. Sophia who is head cheerleader and president of Clean Teens, the school celibacy club. And come on, really. A guy who looks like Jared should totally be getting laid. All the time. Sophia might pass him notes during Lit class, and let him buy her lunch, and maybe their matching dimples are sort of cute, but. Jared does not have a girlfriend. Sophia has an accessory that looks good linked on her arm. 

Jensen smiles and nods as Jared pays for his Sour Patch Kids and answers, “Right, sure.” 

As Jensen declines on purchasing the offered candy laid out before him, and just as the cashier shrugs and beckons the next customer in line, a bell rings out. 

“I'm guessing that doesn't mean school's out for summer,” Jared says, warily, eying the ceiling like he expects it to cave in on them. 

Jensen answers with appropriate drama, “Show time.” 

They make their way into the crowded auditorium, and lucky for them, Mr. Morgan made sure seats were saved with their names on them. Still clutching his candy, Jared pushes down the theater seat, sitting next to Katie with a smile that is made more wide because, Jensen thinks, he's probably remembering back to their earlier conversation. That's great. That's awesome. Good for them. 

Mr. Morgan leans across Miss Heigl and says, “Courtesy clap. Let's show 'em that we have our manners. They're good, but not that good, right?”

Jensen nods along, because it's true. With Jared, they are so much better than they’ve ever been before. They've actually got a fighting shot at kicking ass this year: Sectionals, hell, they could go all the way to Regionals if they pick their songs wisely and Chad stops screwing up the choreography on purpose. 

People start to quiet down, angry mothers with digital cameras who want to capture their kids’ every moment onto a memory card glaring scathingly at the few who carry on their conversation; and, finally, a hush settles over the crowd as the curtains part. 

The choir starts up, soft at first, and because they’re taking the slow approach, it takes Jensen a couple lines to realize that they're singing “Rehab”, a song Genevieve had petitioned for a week before Jared had shown up. Jensen had shot it down, claiming that, while they needed to stay current, that didn't translate to glorifying the lifestyle of alcoholic crackheads through the power of song. That might have been a mistake. These guys are good. Not good-for-their-age or good-for-a-school-of-degenerates, they’re the kind of good that Jensen has always envisioned for himself. They're amazing, _and_ they dance. 

Jensen is speechless and impressed and it hits him then, blown away by both the vocal and choreographic synchronization of Shoot to Thrill, that this isn't going to be the smooth sailing he thought it would be. 

Their number ends flawlessly, of course, with perfect poses and pageant smiles, and all Jensen feels is dread. A whole lot of dread. 

 

~~~~ ♫~~~~

 

Apparently Mr. Morgan knocked his wife up and that means he has to quit teaching high school. As if that makes any sense. But that’s what he tells the glee club. Jensen’s heard rumors it was really Miss Heigl he got preggo and now he’s totally bailing before his wife finds out. Jensen could believe it. He’s seen the way Miss Heigl stares at Morgan in the hallways. The way she sighs as she watches him walk away. Mm _hmm_.

Mr. Morgan abandoning the team wouldn’t be much of a problem in of itself—Jensen doesn’t mind taking his place as leader until another adult volunteer is found; he has more talent in his left pinkie than Mr. Morgan has in his entire body, it’s true—it’s just that _Jared_ decides this is his cue to exit stage left, too. 

Jensen sits on the steps leading up to the stage, fists to his chin, long after the rest of the club disbands after hearing the news. Well, everyone except for Chad, who is plucking at his guitar somewhere to Jensen’s left. 

“So,” Chad says, clearing his throat, “that new guy. What a douche.”

Which was Jensen's first reaction to the news, too, because, let's face it, God don't make pretty for no reason. It’s gotta come attached to things like easily transmitted diseases or manic depression or tendencies towards addiction. Or sometimes a personality that, well, throws eggs at your fellow show-choir members' homes, mocks your wardrobe, and then dumps you just when you were starting to feel the love.

“Whatever,” he says, gruff and noncommittal, like don't quote him on this down the line.

Chad stares off, oblivious. “He's probably got, dude, a shit-ton of girlfriends. Girls lining up for him, man. Long, slender lines, full of loose morals and tight—”

“Uh, think it's just the one, actually,” Jensen cuts in, mostly to kill Chad's litany of visual-inducing words. And, anyway, as far as Jensen’s concerned, that’s turned out to be one girlfriend too many. 

“Oh, you’d know about that, huh? Sharing girl talk with the jock.”

Jensen opens his mouth to tell Chad to shove off but... what if? What if what Jared needs to stay in glee club isn’t a two-minute high school romance, but just someone who cares if he’s around. Jensen could be that person. Probably he could be, anyway. 

Jensen watches Chad tune his guitar for a second longer, then pushes up. Jared can’t quit. Jensen won’t _let him_. 

Jensen is going to make a friend. 

 

~~~~ ♫~~~~

 

Jensen’s house is gigantic. It's not a mansion or anything (it's only got five bedrooms), but relatively speaking, it's huge. Which means it's extra hard to make sure it’s in a super presentable state when Jared comes over. Jared, who Jensen had cornered as one casually might after fifth period, and said—casual still, because that was the key, being casual—“I've got a poker table.” It wasn't even what Jensen had meant to say, but it just popped into his head and flowed directly out of his mouth because he’d overheard Jared and a bunch of his friends, once, discussing some late night poker game they’d watched on TV. Apparently, that information had been retained. 

The doorbell rings, the chime echoing through the house, and Jensen tugs at his sweater. His pants are ironed, but not in a way that looks obvious. Earlier he'd spritzed on some of his dad's Gucci Homme, and now he’s freaking. Maybe Jared will catch a whiff of it on arrival and think this was some sort of a setup for a date and bail. Which it totally isn’t! It’s an arranged meeting between acquaintances to close a social gap for the greater good of show choir. Yep. 

Jensen opens the door with a smile. “Thanks for coming over!” he says, as Jared scrubs his feet back and forth on the welcome mat. “It’s nice to see you. Did you have a good practice? Score a lot of touchdowns?”

Jared looks some combination of amused and freaked out. So... Jensen's coming off a little strong. Good to know! He shuts the door behind Jared who shoves his hands into the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt, says, “Nah, not really, we mostly ran drills.” 

“You guys are using power equipment during practice now?” 

“No, not _drills_ , like... football exercises.” 

“I see.” Jensen clears his throat. “Well, it’s good to keep your body in top athletic condition.” 

“Yeah.” Jared shrugs. “I guess.” 

Well, this is going, hmm. Awkward is the first word that springs to mind. And they haven’t even made it past the front entryway. Jensen guesses he’d better skip the witty seduction that is his chit-chat and just go ahead and take things up a floor. 

“Come on,” he says, leading Jared to the stairway. “I want you to see something.” 

Following close, Jared says, “Your game room is upstairs? Sick, man. How come you never throw any parties? 'Cause you'd probably get hit with a lot less slushies if you—” They hit the threshold of Jensen's room and Jared's words shift easily into an understanding. “Oh.” 

Jensen's already got his laptop switched on, but Jared takes notice of the camcorder Jensen had stupidly left shoved into a corner. He frowns and says, “Whatever happened to buying a guy dinner first?” 

Jensen’s eyes go wide at that, a protest on the tip of his tongue, but then Jared grins, laughs at his own joke. And like that, Jensen relaxes—shoulders loosening up, the nervous rush settling down. The tips of his ears are probably still tinged pink, but Jensen pushes down his embarrassment, gives back, “Uh, one: suck it. Two: you so wish. Three? That's a repeat of numbers one and two, but more vigorously.” 

Jared brushes past Jensen and heads for the camera. “You ever use this?” he asks, opening and closing the screen, pressing buttons, messing with the height of the tripod. In other words, causing Jensen's stress level to skyrocket back up. There are recorded performances on there that he has yet to transfer over to the computer. 

“Every day after school,” he tells him, resisting the urge to gently move Jared away from the precious camera equipment. 

“Nice,” Jared laughs, and wipes his hands on his pants like, _oh, gross, splooge_. 

Jensen catches on quick. “Oh, no, the camera for that is set up in the bathroom. Every third day, I head in there with a jar of Body Butter. Wild cherry-scented. It's very romantic. Kinda sweet, actually.” 

“Fuck off,” Jared suggests. 

Jensen nods at the camera. “Your hard-on for my self-made porn aside, it's actually for playback.” 

“Coach makes us do that for new plays. And then we watch them. Over and over again.” 

“Look,” Jensen says, and Jared comes closer to the laptop. Jensen's got his MySpace up, the video of him singing “Let it Be” loaded. It's the one with the most positive comments. 

Jared leans over, squinting to read the small font. Jensen catches the smell of his aftershave. “Dude,” he says after a long moment, “have you read these?” 

“Did someone leave a new comment?” Jensen asks, eager for fresh praise. 

“Uh, yeah, like a week ago. Look at this guy.” He points at the screen. “He's got to be breaking sixty. Jensen,” he says, and starts patting at the laptop's touch pad to scroll down, “some of these guys are older than my _grandpa_. You've got every Chester the Molester on the Internet leaving you comments.” 

Jensen shoulders Jared aside a little to see. “That's Misha,” he says of the most recent comment on the screen. “He's cool.” The comment reads: _Good job Jensen! Can't wait 2 see ur name in lights! THen I can say I new you back when! LOL. Ur going 2 be famous one day and I will be there to see it!_ It's supportive. Besides, having a fanbase means you can't be critical of the people cheering you on. That isn't very diplomatic.

“He's been writing me since I was fourteen,” Jensen adds, cheerful. “Encouraging words... sometimes e-cards.” 

“Yeah, that's basically the creepiest thing ever.” 

Jensen laughs. It comes out awkward. “Oh, come on, he's a fan.” 

“Of your musically sculpted _biceps_. Look here,” he points again, “he’s straight-up saying 'Jensen, take off your shirt'.” 

“Oh!” Jensen says, reaching for his Idea Notebook. “Maybe I can do a scene from _South Pacific_ for that...” Jared is staring at him the way one stares at an old man when he starts to trail off from making zero sense. “What?” 

“What you're supposed to do in this situation is hit the 'report abuse' button, repeatedly, not... undress. I'm pretty sure they have a TV show about this. Chris Hansen?” 

“Yeah, but...” Jensen laughs again, nervously. Jared’s making it all sound pretty weird. 

“Jensen, you know you’re good, right?” Jared pauses. Then, “Like, good in a way that makes other people nervous to sing around you.” 

“I... that’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s true. Even with all that, you still need your ego stroked by these pervs?”

“To clarify, not all of them are pervs. Some are—” 

“Twelve-year-old girls leaving glittery pictures of teddy bears on your wall. I’m pretty sure the scientific term for that is _downgrade_.”

“Never mind,” Jensen says, and goes to shut down the computer.

“C'mon, don't go shutting it off just 'cause I'm being an ass. Play one. Let me judge you the way these guys judge you. Minus the leering.”

“You're serious?”

“Yeah.” He pushes Jensen's hand out of the way with his own, bringing the MySpace page back up. “Let's see. Misha-approved. Dude, this guy's such a stalker. He's marked them _all_ as favorites. Okay, Swimfan. Oh, hey. Sophia left a comment—” 

Jensen makes a short sort of choking noise and manhandles Jared away from the offending comment that probably went a little something like: _Wow, this reminds me of Britney 2.0. You know, WHILE she was crazy insane. You're not going to dent my car with an umbrella, are you crazy eyes? LOLOLOLOL LOSER!_

He taps a little wildly at the touchpad until the tab disappears. “Uh, that wasn't what I was going to show you, so. Wait. I'll pull it up.”

Jared backs up a step, hands held up in front of him. “You always so touchy when it comes to technology?”

“Only electronics that record me jerking off.” When Jared gives him a long look, he says, “I'm kidding. That was a joke. Clearly. Just,” he beckons, “come look at this.” He pulls the chair out for Jared. Jared's dropped his defensive stance, but it still takes him a moment before he budges. 

“This isn't the part where you make me stare at a blank screen for a really long time, and then something jumps out and scares the shit out of me, is it?” he asks warily, sitting down. “Because, uh, I'm way too macho for that. Just so you know, if I scream like a girl? That is really me screaming like a man.”

Jensen laughs and grabs the back of the chair to lean on. He hovers over Jared's shoulder, pointing at the screen. 

“Can I ask you a question?” Jared says, twitching a thumb towards the laptop. Jensen's close enough to get an aerial view of the mole sitting next to Jared's nose. “If it's not about the reaction—and just so you know, a group of perverts demanding you sing “Paparazzi” shirtless isn't a reaction you should want to have—why do you do it?” 

“It gets my face out there. And before you say something like, _Yeah, it gives that Misha dude a clean aiming shot_ , shut up. Besides,” Jensen says, straightening, “I'm not like you. You’re... popular,” he adds, gruff-voiced, like he's just stating the facts, no pansy feelings involved.

Jared swivels the chair sideways, making Jensen's grip on it slip. “You do this for popularity points? Because, really, so not judging here. I mean, high school is... epically hard. And in the face of, uh, _differences_ —” Jared rubs at the back of his neck, “and popularity and all that stupid crap, it, I don't know, it...”

Jensen sits on his bed. “I'm aiming for _America's Got Talent_ , actually.” He's joking, of course. His talent is beyond anything that involves David Hasselhoff as a judge. “It's about getting noticed. Yeah, that makes me sound like a giant loser,” he laughs. “It's just—okay, you have football, right? And you put on your costume—”

“Generally we call those _uniforms_.”

“Whatever it is, you get out there on the field, and that's your moment, right? When you're out there, you've gotta feel like everyone's watching you. Like what you do out there is the most important thing in the world for those... uh, innings?”

“Close enough.” Jared laughs.

“Right. Well, that's what Glee is for me. I get that rush, and those moments? Where you feel important to the whole world? Every time I sing, I feel them.”

Jared admits, “I’ve noticed. I'm not stalking you or anything, but I always notice, man. You get all intense when you sing.”

Jensen surges off the bed. “Because I have to _work_ for it. I didn't sign up to slack off, I'm out there trying to earn that next step, to _build_ something.”

Jared's staring up at him with calm, non-judging eyes. “I get it. Okay? If that's what this is about,” he gestures over to the computer, “I get it. You want the trophy, so you're playing like the MVP.”

“Sports analogy. Totally understood that. Yep.” And then, “That was a good thing, right?” Now that Jensen’s drama flare-up is ebbing, he remembers why he’d invited Jared over in the first place, and it wasn't so Jared could witness firsthand the theatrics Jensen's earned a reputation for. 

Jared's got a talent that Jensen would kill for; as much as Jensen is aware that he's got something amazing going on, he knows Jared does too, and Jared doesn't even have to work for it. It just happens naturally. Meanwhile, Jensen's got a lozenge habit that he's pretty sure would be classified as addictive; anything and everything he can do to hone his talent, he does.

“Jared, why did you sign up for Glee?”

“Mr. Morgan. He, uh...” Jared trails off, and then huffs, “It wasn't really an option. Like _Halo 3_. You know it sucks, but, like, thinking it sucks makes you a terrorist, or whatever.”

It's an eloquent, “Huh?” Jensen tosses back. 

Jared taps his fingers on his knees, shrugging big in the shoulders. “Why does anyone sign up?”

“To perfectly showcase their broadening talent in the greatest available arena that public high school allows.”

Jared blinks. “Uh, groupies. Was what I was thinking. There's a whole flocking scenario...”

Jensen smiles wide and tight. “Sure. Right. God love a groupie! Glee does lend a certain allure. Stallions, glee men are. Thoroughbred. Trust me!” He’s grasping.

“Jensen,” Jared says, giving him an amused look, “I was kidding.”

Oh, yeah, clearly. A joke.

“It was Mr. Morgan's idea,” Jared admits. “For extra credit in Spanish class. He said he'd be able to pass me if I joined the club, and Coach says I can't play unless I pass.” He shrugs. “I’m pretty sure blackmail was involved. And the selling of my soul.” 

Jensen eases onto the bed again. “You should come back,” he tells Jared, “for preventative purposes. Prevent our inevitable sucking.” He hesitates, bites at his bottom lip, and then goes for honest. “We'll lose without you, Jared.”

“I'm not that good,” Jared argues. “I'm serious. I haven't even got the walking-while-singing part down. I'm practically collateral damage out there.”

“You're _better_ than good. You're fantastic. And, hey, we can install you in a wheelchair if you can't pick up the choreo in time,” he jokes. “Paint it the school colors. Attempt a fetching fall design. Come on, that's a hit and you know it!”

“Yeah,” Jared drawls, “shocking, but I'm gonna have to pass.”

Jensen pushes off the bed, going from calm to over-worked in two seconds’ time. Maybe he’d overestimated Jared, which sucks to realize. All he's hearing is a ton of defensive, by-the-book excuses that boil down to the same thing: Jared has his twinkle-eyed, plastic-skinned stature as a CW Adonis to maintain. “It conflicts with your reputation,” he says, accusing.

Jared huffs out an easy, _no arguments here_ laugh. “Uh. Yeah. You could say that.”

“You're better than those guys. Every one of them.” Jared's getting up, but Jensen keeps going. He's in the zone, and there's no breaking the zone. “What do you care what they think? If they're going to turn on you because you choose to go against the standard jock grain, how is that even friendship? How is that a team you want to be on?”

Jared tries, “They're my friends.”

“Friends don't let friends dress white-on-white, they don’t let you drink and drive, and they don't hold you back.” 

Jensen swaps approaches, because Jared looks close to bailing. “You like it. It makes you feel good. Singing, music. I’m not making that up, right?”

“Dude, well, yeah. But that doesn’t mean I—” 

“Come back to Glee. And if it makes your stock plunge, you can quit. No hard feelings. But don't just give up on it. I know what I'm doing in there. Our post-Morgan stats are impeccable.”

“He’s... only been gone one day.”

“Yes, but—” 

“I’m late getting home," Jared says, and Jensen can't tell if he's said anything that struck a chord or not.

“So are you coming back?”

“I don't know!” Jared hesitates, like he wants to pat Jensen on the head or sock him in the arm, but he just ends up sliding his hand behind his head, scratching at the back of his neck. “See you tomorrow?”

Big smile, teeth barred, disappointment shelved. Selling lines. “That's fine. It's great.”

And then Jared does bang his hand against Jensen's arm, but it's more of a friendly thump.

“See you,” he says.

 

~~~~ ♫~~~~

 

Jensen pulls out his binder, sets it on his desk. Gets out his pen and drops his school bag to the floor. When he leans back in his seat he feels something tickling at the back of his neck. He smacks at the spot, then hears laughter.

“Dude.” Resident asshole Brock Kelly hauls himself across his desk, hovers close to Jensen’s ear. “Self-flagellation. Wicked fetish you got there, freak show.” 

The few kids close enough to hear snicker. 

Jensen's not psyched Brock chose a seat behind him today, it's way too early in the morning to deal with this shit. He pulls away, clears his throat and ignores Brock, but Sophia, sitting beside Jensen, turns her face just the slightest bit toward him, eyebrow hooked high.

“I saw,” she begins, all stilted and sultry, and Jensen immediately shifts away, scratching at his left temple to block her out, “the _cutest_ video last night on MySpace. Seriously, it was insane-adorable.”

Jensen smiles tightly, doesn't look her in the eye. “Did you really?” he says. “Must've been the tame part of your evening. You know, sandwiched between your nightly blood ritual and sacrificing that basket of kittens.” 

Jensen’s known Sophia since the day he was tossed into his very first dance class; both of them practicing steps under the watchful eye of Ms. Griffin who trained them through diligence, repetition, and the bowl of M&Ms that was necessary to keep a group of 4-year-olds on point. Jensen’s _regretted_ knowing Sophia since he won first place in the local Kids’ Jazz Dance Competition, at age eight.

Brock grabs Jensen by the shoulders, squeezes the hell out of him, fingers digging in. “Bro, you might want to exercise your right to dial your voice down to nada.”

Sophia tuts, brows pinched together in mock-admonishment, gliding past Jensen’s barb. “Wait, no. What am I talking about?” She laughs, infusing the sound with as much venom as possible. “I saw some geek from my class butcher the hell out of a Pink Floyd song. Seriously,” she says, finally deigning to look at him, eyes lasering in on target, “what makes you think you can sing a Pink Floyd song?”

There's a tic in Jensen’s jaw. He hunches forward, trying to put some distance between himself and the Neanderthal behind him. “Artistic interpretation,” he grinds out, then winces when Brock’s fingers bite deep into his shoulders again.

“More like asstistic sucktation,” Brock says, giving Jensen a shake, like: c'mon, they're all pals, aren't they? Just a few friends having themselves a good time, and Jensen—such a sport. Brock laughs, gives Jensen one last shake, then smacks him on the back in one final display of his being a class-A jerk. 

Brock’s still laughing when Jared steps into the classroom. Jensen coughs and flips open his binder, ignores Jared who’s lingering in the doorway. He thinks he can feel Jared’s eyes on him, and Jensen straightens his shoulders, adjusts his binder so it’s lying at a perfect right angle to the edge of his desk.

Brock waves Jared over, and Jared takes a seat behind Sophia. Jensen doesn’t turn around because he's not some kind of debased freak who continues to crave validation from the cool kids who’ve just finished publicly humiliating him, but still he knows without looking that Jared's giving off that megawatt smile, got his dimples going, friendly and happy and fake as can be.

“Hey,” he hears Sophia say to Jared. “Where were you last night? I waited up for you. I thought we could, you know. _Pray_ ,” she says, and judging by the seductive slide in her tone, she's not actually talking church-sanctioned activities.

Jensen's ears perk, waiting for Jared’s answer. Jensen keeps studiously flipping through his binder; really, he likes to think he’s above eavesdropping. But he's also sort of obviously angling his head in Jared’s general direction. That’s just the way his neck is, okay? That’s all. 

“Ah,” Jared smiles at Sophia, pushes a leering Brock out of his face with his forearm, “I had something to do for my mom. You know how it is, Soph.”

That pings the hell out of Jensen's internal bullshit radar. Last night, Jared was moseying his way around Jensen's room, talking smack about Jensen’s MySpace fans, and fiddling with Jensen's expensive, craft-honing recording equipment.

Brock socks Jared on the arm. “Our very own mama’s boy.”

“Suck it,” Jared shoots back.

Sophia turns all the way around in her seat, facing Jared, puts her hands over his. “What about today then? After school? I thought we could go watch that movie with Taylor Lautner in it, you know, the vampire one. It’s supposed to be good.”

“Gay Moon!” Brock coughs into his hand.

Sophia gives Brock the evil eye, icy little daggers sent his way. “It's called _New Moon_ , douchehole.” Then she looks back at Jared, says, “What do you think?” in this _‘little fly, come closer to my web’_ voice, sugary sweet, a total trap. “We can sit in the back. In the dark. I might even let you,” a low whisper, “feel me up.” 

It's only because Jensen has perfectly angled his head to seem disinterested while maintaining a peripheral view of what's going on that he notices Jared glance his way instead of answering. And it's only because of _that_ that Jensen straight-up forgets that this conversation? Doesn’t include him. And it's only because he thoughtlessly quirks a questioning look Jared's way that Sophia catches on, eyes flying from Jared to Jensen and back again.

“Jared,” she hisses, “I’m talking to you.” And then Jared pulls his hands out from under hers, tugs at the sleeves of his shirt like, oh, hey, look at these distracting sleeves covering up my giant man muscles.

Jensen sucks in a breath and turns ahead again, eyes rolling at his own carelessness, expecting a brutal flare-up from Sophia. She sounded _pissed_. Like ‘ _watch your back, because I'm going to plaster the school with pictures of your face on RuPaul’s body... again_ ’ level bitchy.

There's a flick to the back of Jensen's head, and Brock says, “Mind your own, dorkus.”

“Come on,” Jared sighs, “leave him alone.” And Jared coming to Jensen's defense is so bizarre, so unexpected and unprecedented that there’s a stretch of silence three seconds long where no one knows how to react. Not even Jensen, who’s yo-yoing between feeling overjoyed and extra cautious. Because once you push Sophia into invoking her right to get her bitch on, you're asking for hell to shower down upon you, basically.

Brock laughs, uncomfortable, and gives Jared a chance to rectify what has to be a momentary lapse of character. “What?”

“Jared,” Sophia says through her teeth, “what do you care? He's a nobody.”

“Technically,” Jensen starts, but he's cut off by a simultaneous “ _Shut up_ ,” from Brock and Sophia. He holds up his palms. “I’m just saying—and I know,” he says, when Sophia glares in his direction, lips starting to move, “ _shut up_ —but I’d like to make clear that I _am_ on the map. You know who I am. So does Brock, and so do a lot of other people. You watch my videos, right? I mean, come on, doesn’t that alone make me a pretty big deal? I'm not a _nobody_.”

And it's like, bam. Even playing field. He can see Jared looking at him, all impressed. But Sophia goes on like Jensen had never opened his mouth, locks her eyes on Jared, using her dimples for evil. “Jared, sweetie. He's in _show choir_.”

Jared stares at Sophia, jaw set firm. He folds his arms across his chest, gives a half-shrug. And then says, “So am I.”

Sophia's jaw drops, and Brock looks down, tries to hide the look of pity that flashes across his face for Jared’s sake. Jensen feels this swell of emotions, barely contained in his chest, and he wonders if he had something to do with it. If, maybe, something he’d said last night had stayed with Jared. Maybe later Jared could tell him what it was, exactly, he’d said that had struck Jared so powerfully so Jensen could write it down and save it, because clearly those words held magical powers.

“You said,” Sophia stammers, indignant, “it was for a grade! To pass Spanish so you could play football. Because, reality check, Jared, you're a jock, not a choir geek. A brawn, and trust me on this, _not_ a brain.”

Brock covers up his burst of laughter with a cough, but Jared rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “No, Sophie, don’t unleash your sweet talk. Anything but the compliments, por favor,” he drawls, in one low, let out breath.

“This isn't a joke!” she whisper-screams, and three or four kids milling into the classroom look their way, the teacher too, who's standing at the chalkboard clapping erasers together. Sophia smiles sweetly, and when he turns away again, she keeps up, quieter. “I thought you quit? What was that, a lie? Are you _lying_ to me now, Jared?”

Jared pitches forward. “Look, I have to stay, okay? I thought I could quit, but. I can’t.”

“ _Why_? Everyone knows Mr. Morgan gave it up. The club’s _coach_ , Jared. Doesn't that tell you something?”

Jared’s mouth forms around a few different words, but nothing comes out.

“Exactly.” Sophia huffs and turns around, whips her hair over her shoulder in a riddle Jensen decodes as: _Jared Padalecki, you will get the bitching-out of a lifetime once class is over, so help me_. Lucky for Jensen, the bell announcing the start of class rings before he can find out what sort of message Sophia wants to send _him_.

Jensen faces front and opens his notebook. He fights the small part of him that wants to pass Jared a note instead of jotting down the key points their teacher is scribbling on the chalkboard. 

_DEAR JARED, WILL YOU GO TO GLEE WITH ME? CIRCLE ONE: YES, NO_. 

So maybe there’s a possibility that the small part is more like a super-huge, all-consuming urge than a tiny voice in his head, but Jensen refrains from making an ass out of himself by deciding to wait until he catches Jared alone to debrief him. Ahem.

This happens sooner than expected when Jared straight up _bolts_ out of his seat the second the bell screams the class period over and rushes like there’s fire on his tail into the Sophia-free zone of the boys’ bathroom.

Jensen follows him and finds the bathroom empty save for, yep. Those are for sure Jared’s Converse sneakers in that last stall. Jensen shrugs, knocks on the plastic-laminate door. 

“Ocupado!”

Jensen clears his throat, tries, “Jared? It’s, uh—” 

“Jensen? What are you—? You don’t _knock_ on stall doors, man! What do I need to do, hang up a _‘No Solicitors’_ sign before shitting?” 

Oh. Crap. “Sorry, uh, are you...” Sweet! Apparently Jensen’s brain is on some awesome setting of _total fail_ today. 

“No, I’m not taking a dump, okay! I’m just—”

“Hiding from your girlfriend?”

“No,” Jared grumps. 

“Hmm, are you doing the New York Times crossword in there, then?”

Jared sighs. “I’m not hiding from Sophia. I’m _avoiding_ her. Look, Jensen, I didn’t know I was going to come back to Glee until right before I said so. I looked at you and I felt like an asshole for pussying out.” 

Jensen smiles, leans his back against the door to Jared’s stall. 

“I need some time to put my defenses in place so she can go ahead and mow them down. Arguing with Sophia is like some fucked-up Olympic event. I just. I don’t want to let her talk me out of it, okay?”

Jensen lets out a slow, relieved breath. If Jared’s preparing for battle on behalf of glee club, he must be pretty sure. Jensen gives the door a few taps of encouragement.

“Seriously, dude. Quit with the knocking.” 

“You got it,” Jensen says, giving the door a light rattle of moral support instead. “See you after school, then. You know where to find us!” he adds cheerfully. 

It’s only after he exits the restroom that his mind strays to the question of whether or not Jared had his pants down while they were talking. This leads to images of Jared’s pants down in other more _interesting_ scenarios and that delays Jensen at his locker long enough to earn him his first ever tardy. 

When Jared’s lanky frame pops into the auditorium where Glee is meeting after final bell, well. Jensen can’t help but think his toilet-side manner must be really, really _amazing_. 

 

~~~~ ♫~~~~

 

Jensen tilts his head, hoping the photograph in Jared’s hallway might be less terrifying at a different angle, but nope. Still shockingly frightening, really. Jared clears his throat from next to Jensen, lets out a low hum under his breath, then explains, “His name was Chad. Uh, Chad Lindberg. I guess it was kind of my tribute to him.”

“Oh,” Jensen says, still pretty much at a loss for words, gladly looking away from the framed image of a young Jared hanging on the wall. “So... like. You grew a mullet after you hero-worshipped some guy for owning a big hose he sprayed around your lawn?” 

“No, Jensen, that’s. The yard care service wasn’t why I... I liked him because he sang with me,” Jared admits. “Told me I had a nice voice. Nobody’d ever said anything like that to me before.” 

Jensen takes in Jared’s puppy-dog expression and feels a tug in his chest. He wishes that he’d known Jared earlier, that he could have been someone who had supported and encouraged this part of Jared that was so special. He taps Jared lightly, once, on the back of his hand. “Well, he was right. You’re really talented, Jared.”

Jared blinks at him, like he can’t quite process Jensen’s words. Like Jensen is speaking some foreign language, or has just announced that he’d knocked up Katy Perry. Then he grins slowly, pats Jensen on the back. “Really, man? Thanks. That means a lot coming from you. It does.” He smiles to himself, lost in thought for a second, then, “Come on, guitar’s in my room.” 

Being invited over to Jared’s was something Jensen had expected to happen, oh, say, _never_. But he’d assigned Jared the lead on “Falling Slowly” and that’d freaked Jared out enough that he’d asked Jensen for extra help. And for the record, Jensen gave Jared the song because he knew having Jared perform the lead would turn it into a total crowd pleaser. It'd skyrocket their chances to win at Sectionals. They'd probably be hailed show choir perfection. That's all it was. Totally free of any weird, or ulterior motives, such as Jensen secretly popping a boner over the thought of watching Jared strum tenderly away at his guitar while crooning a soul-stirring love song. An Oscar-winning love song, too. Critically approved. Globally beloved... god, that was hot. Um. And vital for glee club victory! Really. 

Jared’s bedroom is not at all what Jensen had pictured. Not that he’d spent hours dreaming it up or anything. But in the back of his mind, he’d imagined more posters of girls with breasts spilling out of their bikini tops, maybe dozens upon dozens of sports trophies lining the bookshelves. Instead, he finds the room simple and clean. A desk sits in the corner, a clunky PC and text books piled on top of it. Jared heads over to the side of the room where he keeps a couple of guitars, an amp, and a dark-blue rocking chair. His walls are decorated with maps of the world and framed photos of people Jensen doesn’t recognize. An old-school poster of Pearl Jam is tacked over the headboard of Jared’s bed. Jensen hovers at the door.

Jared looks up from adjusting the strap of his guitar. He points to one of the pictures hanging on the wall. “That’s my dad,” he says. “He died in Iraq.”

“Jared, that’s,” Jensen pauses, unsure of the right words. “I’m really sorry.”

“I didn’t know him,” Jared says, as though that makes a difference, as if not having a parent around ever feels okay. “I was still a baby when he...” 

“I don’t really know mine, either.”

Jared looks up at him again, searches Jensen’s face as if he’s looking for a punch line, then smiles. “Take a seat, man,” he says, gesturing towards the blue-and-brown-striped comforter on his bed. 

Jensen carefully sits down at the edge of the mattress. The blankets are unmade, and he looks down to find his right hand resting on top of a pair of cotton boxers. Oh, jesus. Jensen scurries up right quick, to a standing position. He’s in Jared’s bedroom, that is Jared’s bed, those are Jared’s boxers, and. Jared probably jerks off in that very bed at night. Or morning. Or _both_! 

Jared is staring at him, curiously, fingers paused on his tuning. “Jensen?” 

Jensen’s heart is pounding, his very own Keith Moon solo drumming in his chest. He feels his face flush, certain that Jared knows what he’s thinking, knows exactly how much the idea of Jared touching himself is making Jensen’s pulse race. The guilt builds until Jensen, panicking, blurts out, “I need to tell you something! I’m gay.”

“Um... duh?” Jared says, flashing a friendly, perplexed grin.

“You _knew_?”

“Jensen, you cut out Marc Jackson ads to glue onto your binder.”

“Marc Jacobs,” Jensen corrects.

“Right, that guy. And your iPod contains just about every show tune ever recorded.”

“My iPod contains every genre known to man, Jared. Plus, those behaviors do not automatically make me gay.”

“Maybe not, but—” 

“Also, you left out the part where I’m too good-looking to be straight.”

A quick cough forces its way out of Jared. “Mmhmm, that true. I sure did leave that out.”

“So you’re okay with me being here? In your bedroom. On your bed?”

“I don’t know.” Jared shrugs casually. “You planning on having sex with my sheets? ‘Cause they’re kinda dirty and you don’t know where they’ve been. I would recommend using some protection.”

“You’re a jerk.” Jensen tries to steer his face away from the smile he’s got going and toward a ferocious scowl.

Jared just chuckles and says, “And you’re gay. So now that we’ve got that settled, do you wanna get on with the song?”

Jared starts slow, fingers picking carefully at his Martin guitar, lets the song build gently into its love story. He has big hands, strong. Long fingers that Jensen thinks might be more comfortable wrapped around the laces of a football. But he’s good. No, he’s _great_ , and Jensen watches as Jared’s eyes close, his hands sliding over the strings, his bangs sweeping over his forehead. Jared looks captivated—completely immersed in the music, in the lyrics they’re both singing now—and Jensen’s voice falters as he takes it in. And it hits him how truly gorgeous Jared really is.

Jensen is so epically screwed. He should tell Jared he has to go. He should probably leave right now. But he doesn’t. Jared’s singing is like a lullaby and Jensen feels like he’s gone days without sleep.

** ACT TWO **

“Look,” Jensen says, “the lyrics? They're not that hard, Danneel. You _know_ them. And Chad,” his voice grows less patient, “so help me, flip over _one more time_.” 

Jensen lets out a bothered sigh. Keeping the group on task is more difficult than he’d originally expected. Not to mention, there’ll be no point keeping on if they don’t get an official adult supervisor in here soon, anyway. Jensen’s about one step away from resorting to bribing Ms. Heigl to sit in on rehearsals just so they can comply with competition regulation. 

“Hey, guys.”

Everyone stops what they're doing. Even Chad quits with the fake wheelie-into-the-orchestra-pit moves, drops to a stopped and locked position, mouth open and gaping.

They're all gaping, because Mr. Morgan is easing down the aisle and heading their way. Coolly, like it wasn't two weeks ago that he'd taken that walk in the other direction. Quitting them.

“Uh, guys,” Chad says, voice low, “what's the protocol? Do I make eye contact? I'm making eye contact. Should I be making eye contact?”

“Shut _up_ ,” Katie hisses, wearing a tight smile.

Jensen rubs a hand over his brow, does an awkward half turn toward Mr. Morgan, then turns back to the group. “Come on,” he tries, corralling everyone, “from the top.”

But Mr. Morgan leaps up onto the stage like he still belongs there, centers himself in the middle of the group.

Danneel waves big. “Hey, Mr. Morg!” Everyone glares at her, because really? Making the enemy feel at home? How is that cool? Her eyes bug out, and she goes, “What?” like, ‘ _He's here! He's standing right there! So sorry I'm not a bunch of stubborn bitches like the rest of you!’_

Mr. Morgan smiles warmly, shoves his hands into his pockets. He's got this whole apologetic vibe going on. “Hey.” He opens the flood gates with one easy word, draining most of the group’s ambivalence.

Chad holds up a hand, greets, “Yo, Mr. M-to-the-G-A-N! Long time, no teach.”

“How went the vay-cay?” asks Katie.

Danneel says, “You look tan. God, I hate you.” Then she catches herself. “For your wicked bronzed glow, not... you know."

“Guys, could we? We have practice,” Jensen reminds them. He goes to cue the music, but everyone's huddling around Mr. Morgan, their excitement building. Maybe Jensen's insides are made of robot, because all he feels is the weight of distrust.

“About rehearsal.” It's like Mr. Morgan switches on a solo spotlight, because all attention zips directly to him. “Look, guys. I shouldn't have left you like that.”

Jensen jumps off the stage, because he can't hear this. The apologies. Some page torn out of a script.

“It was a stupid, selfish decision,” Mr. Morgan raises his voice for Jensen, but Jensen says nothing, just keeps walking.

“I want to come back!” 

Jensen slows, turns around, surprised.

Mr. Morgan eases to a squatting position, then jumps off the stage. “I left, and I regret it. Every day, I have regretted it.”

Jensen feels this shift inside, this hitch. Adults don't admit things like this. They pass their failures off, onto anyone and everyone else, onto kids, onto their prescription meds, bosses—that's just. That’s how it's _done_ , it's a fact of life, straight up. Adults shirk responsibility.

“Look, kiddo,” he directs at Jensen, “I made a mistake. I picked the easy way out instead of,” he lets out a sigh, stares up at the ceiling, “sticking it out with you guys. Because I was weak. I had to make a choice and I made the wrong one, and—”

Their teacher’s voice is shaking, and Jensen makes his own choice. He breezes past Mr. Morgan, back towards the stage. “What're you still standing here saying sorry for? You've got a rehearsal to lead.”

Danneel does an excited hop, clasps her hands together. Katie and Gen share shocked looks, Chad's gone speechless. And Jared's smiling. The group eventually breaks into shouts of joy and laughter, everyone hit with the realization that, with Mr. Morgan back, they have an actual shot at Sectionals again. 

“Hey, hey.” Mr. Morgan quiets them. “Come on. We've got a trophy to win.”

 

~~~~ ♫~~~~

 

Jensen spends the next couple of weeks making sure the glee club keeps striding along. Katie and Danneel skip rehearsal once or twice, but Jared helps Jensen drag them back into the auditorium. Jensen helps Jared cram for his exam in Spanish, pulling an all-nighter, and trading music back and forth. Jared starts staying late after practice, helping Jensen try a few different song arrangements. They try to shake up “Somebody to Love” but it sounds like death, so they butcher “Sweet Caroline” instead. Jared comes over to Jensen’s after practice to hang out a few times. He brings his Xbox with him and cajoles Jensen into a little _Call of Duty 4_ , which Jensen sucks through for a good twenty minutes, before throwing down the controller and preaching about the dangers of simulating war for entertainment. Jared stares at him, amused, then pops in _Karaoke Revolution_. A peace offering. 

Currently, Jared is dragging Jensen through the backyard towards the eastern edge of Jensen’s property.

“But we really need the extra practice, Jared.”

“Yeah, and I really need to pass my photography class,” Jared mutters back.

“Why do we have to do this outside?” Jensen narrows his eyes. “The natural light is only going to amplify this pimple that has taken up residence on my chin,” he says, pointing a finger at the hideous flaw.

“Would you quit whining about _everything_? I’m not taking photos in your bedroom, Jensen. There are too many posters of Jesse Lacey in the background.” 

“Well, have you _seen_ him? Come on, I’m only human.” 

Jared brushes this off with a shake of the head. How sad for him, to be so unenlightened. “Lean up against that tree for me,” he instructs.

Jensen slouches lazily against the bark, resting his weight on one arm. Though he's not naturally an egotist, his future goals all involve the limelight, where he figures the public will expect his face to be splashed across billboards and magazine covers alike. Making this impromptu photo session the perfect practice, all things considered. Inspired, he aims his sexiest ‘ _come hither_ ’ stare at the camera. 

“Do you have to take a crap?” Jared asks, laughing.

“I’m trying to give you some good material to work with, smartass!”

“You already are good material. Just, I don’t know, be yourself.” Jensen stares back at Jared blankly. “Jensen, just space off and think about the last movie you saw, alright?” 

The last movie Jensen watched was _An American in Paris_. Which Jared totally didn’t appreciate the way he should have (Gene Kelly doing Gershwin, come _on_!). Jensen gets lost in thinking about the way Jared had pouted adorably when Jensen had bitched him out for his lack of taste, when he hears the click-click of the camera and Jared murmuring encouraging words: “That’s good, Jen, just like that.” 

Jared directs him through various poses around the yard and Jensen relaxes into it, starts having fun, cracking Jared up with his faces. He’s in the middle of modeling what he tells Jared is his totally accurate “Padalecki pose” when Jared hollers, “That’s it!” and tackles him to the ground. 

And, oh god, there is a lot of _Jared_ on top of him now. A lot of hard, muscled body crushed right up against him, pinning him to the ground. He can feel Jared’s breath, his face just inches away from Jensen’s own, his body rubbing against Jensen as he shifts, and. No doubt Jensen is one second away from popping wood and dying a cruel death of shame on the spot. He squirms under Jared, pushes at his shoulder with one hand. “Get off!”

Jared smirks down at him, mocking, and pushes back against Jensen’s hand. Jensen spits out a string of curses and struggles against the weight, panting, until he gives up, stills his body, and settles down.

Jared takes his victory with all the graciousness of Kanye West at an awards show, straight up laughs in Jensen’s face, eyes crinkling with the hilarity of it all. Great. His laughter quiets, but he’s smiling, still pleased with himself, until he looks into Jensen’s eyes, and something in his expression shifts. His smile slides from teasing to something more gentle, grows fond. “You have a lot of freckles,” he says, leaning up on both elbows to snap an extreme close-up of Jensen’s face.

“Ugh, knock it off, you’re an ass.”

Jared chuckles and gets off of Jensen, finally, brushing grass from the knees of his jeans. Jensen’s wiping at the seat of his pants and when he looks up, he finds Jared staring. Jared opens his mouth once, twice, then says, “You’re really attractive, Jensen.”

“Attractive?” 

“Handsome.”

“You make me sound like a dog. Next you’ll be telling me I’m well-bred.”

Jared bites at his bottom lip, runs a hand through his messy hair. “You’re hot, okay? You’re crazy good-looking.”

“Thank you! Perhaps you can make a comment of that sort on my videos sometime.”

Jared hesitates, scrunches up his eyebrows. “You want me to flirt with you online?”

Jensen stares back at him, stuck on Jared’s words, because, _really_? “You’re flirting with me?”

“I...” Jared’s face flushes as he scratches behind his neck. He finally settles on: “I think I have enough photos.”

And it’s probably just the way Jared’s ducking his head, the way he’s fidgeting with the zipper on his hoodie, that allows Jensen to ask, “One more?” He sidles up next to Jared and takes the camera from his hands. He moves into Jared’s space, brings his face close until they’re cheek-to-cheek, grins obnoxiously as he says, “Cheese!” and points the camera at them. 

He hands the Nikon to Jared. “Print me out a copy of that one.” 

Jared is staring down at the camera, fumbling with a few different buttons, but Jensen still spots the quirk at his lips when he answers, “Yeah. Okay, yeah.”

 

~ ♫~ 

 

Jensen sets his mug of herbal tea with a little bit of honey down on his vanity and clears his throat. He stares in the mirror, flexes his jaw up and down, side to side. Adjusting his shoulders, he straightens his posture, places his hand over his diaphragm, and takes a few deep breaths. He opens his mouth to start running his scales when his phone lets out a shrill chirp from the nightstand.

He gets a, “Hey, what’s up?” in response to his hello. It’s Jared and that’s just... _weird_ is what it is.

Jensen draws in a breath, brushes his hand along his comforter as he sits down on his bed, then answers, “Just doing my vocal exercises.”

There’s a long pause before Jared says, “You do _vocal exercises_ before bed?”

“No," Jensen straight-up lies, shooting his cup of throat-soothing tea an apologetic glance. “I’m joking. What kind of freak,” he laughs shakily, “would do that?”

“Probably you,” guesses Jared.

"You just interrupted me, is all, while I was, you know, polishing my trophies. _Sports_ trophies. Very athletically won.”

“Sports trophies?” For all of Jared's expressed disbelief, Jensen might as well have said, _I'm thinking of dating Katie. Our children would look darling! Don't you agree?_

“What? I've got some,” Jensen says defensively. Sure, they all say ‘champion participant’ or some variation of that—which, yes, basically dwindles down to the fact that there have been movies made about dogs and monkeys more sports-able than Jensen—but. He has them. They exist.

“Let me guess. Field day? Elementary school? You were the best at the parachute game.”

“Your lack of faith wounds me,” Jensen deflects. “Deeply. In the part of my soul connected to a lifetime love of sports and action hero films.”

“Okay,” Jared laughs, like, alright, fine, he'll go along with this delusion. “Tell me about your trophies, Jensen. Describe the gleam you've polished them to. In detail.”

“This is a disturbing kink you've alerted me to.”

“Hey, we’ve all got our fantasies, man.” 

“Hmm,” Jensen says, choosing not to vocalize his own fantasies. Mostly because the majority of them involve Jared, or a Grammy award, or some warped combo of the two. With massage oil. Yeah, that needs to be repressed, and quick. He scoots underneath his covers, brings the blankets up to his chin, changes the subject. “What’re _you_ doing?”

“You mean, besides picturing the slide of your hand rubbing over hot-stamp metallic foil?” Jensen thinks his silence is response enough to answer that. Jared moves on with a sigh. “Nothin’, just lying in bed staring at my Justin Timberlake poster. So, you know, pretty epic evening.”

“I’ve been in your room, Jared. You don’t have a JT poster.”

“Oh, but I do. I tacked it to the ceiling above my bed. Guess you didn’t look up.”

“Suck it. Stop making shit up to seem cool.” 

“Don’t stress, Jensen, I would never lie to you. I’ll let you whip me if I misbehave.”

Jensen knows Jared’s just teasing, he _knows_ it, but that doesn’t stop his breath from hitching, his eyes from closing to better imagine Jared playing dirty. “Jared,” he warns.

“What?” Jared cackles into his ear. “It’s just that no one makes me feel this way!”

“You are seriously a jerk.”

“Nah,” Jared tells him, “you’re just freaking ‘cause I’m bringing sexy back.”

“Bringing asshole back.”

“Jensen,” Jared says, low, tone deadly serious before he wails out a cheery, “Ohh, you ready!?” and starts singing in earnest, loud and out of key. “ _I’m bringing sexy baaaack. Them other boys don’t know how to act. I think it’s special what’s behind your back. So turn around and I’ll pick up the slaaaack!_ ”

He’s singing about dirty babes and shackles and slaves in between hiccups of sharp laughter, and Jensen can’t help it, can’t help smiling, laughing back. Jared is obnoxious and off-pitch in his ear, and Jensen feels good. Feels happy.

“That’s going on my first album,” Jared announces after he’s done cracking up.

“Real funny, Jared. You’re brilliant. I totally mean it.”

“You’re just jealous of my smile.”

“That’s probably true,” Jensen tells him, bring to mind Jared’s dimples. “What are you calling for, anyway, besides to vocally accost my delicate eardrums?”

“Just wanted to say hi, see what’s up. That’s what friends do, right?” Jensen wouldn’t know, but he doesn’t tell Jared as much. Jared continues, “Just got done writing an essay for Mr. Lehne. I think that dude’s part demon.”

Jensen plumps up his pillows, settles in, and listens to Jared go over his day. He’s nice to listen to, pleasant, and as Jensen drifts off to sleep, his mug of tea sits on his dresser, forgotten.

 

~~~~ ♫~~~~

 

“Your girlfriend is glaring at me for hanging out with you again.”

Jared shuts the door to his locker and glances Sophia’s way. “We broke up. I’m pretty sure the glare is meant for me. She’s pissed, but she’ll get over it.” 

_What_? Jensen perks up, wondering when the breakup happened, why Jared didn’t tell him sooner, and if this means he should grab Jared by the shirt and make-out with him on the spot. He shoves his excitement back down into the ‘never-gonna-happen’ compartment of his brain and says, “Oh! Well, I’m sorry. That’s too bad.”

“Is it?” Jared asks, looking amused. Jared is a very confusing person. Jared is slowly driving Jensen insane.

“Or... not. I guess. What do you want me to say?”

“How about, ‘See you after class, Jared’,” he says, leaning into Jensen’s space and pointing to the Lucien Piccard on his wrist. “The bell’s about to ring.”

Jensen meets Jared’s eyes, feels his heart rate speed up. “See you after class.” He swallows. “Jared.”

Jared slings his backpack across his shoulder. “See you.” He stares at Jensen for a second longer, heating up Jensen’s cheeks, before he breaks into a smile, turns around, walks to class.

 

~♫~

 

“It's straight-up science. She's crazier, therefore, she's hotter.”

Danneel asks, “How is that a logic that makes sense?”

“Try to keep up, brain trust,” Chad says. “It’s a mathematic ratio that goes: the crazier the chick, the better in bed she is.”

Genevieve groans, says, “Moron,” and Katie calls out Chad’s bullshit. “And, what, you read that online somewhere?”

Chad scoffs, which means, yeah, he read some webcomic and got himself a new life guideline.

Sensing a trickle effect of disinterest, Chad says, “Whatever, dudes! The Chad doesn't care what you think! Paula Abdul was _way_ hotter than that Kara chick could ever _dream_ of being. Screw you all.”

Jensen can sit silent no more. “No,” he says, but it comes out more like a demand.

Chad looks Jensen’s way, pleased that his audience has expanded to beyond the girls. “The Chad thinks—” 

“Really, that? End it. Didn't we stage some kind of intervention for you?”

Jensen has a pretty clear memory of said intervention, mostly because it involved Chad threatening to wheel himself off the stage at the injustice of it all, but come on. Seriously. 

Chad mutters, “I'll stage my own intervention: raising awareness,” he says, voice getting louder as his disdain grows stronger, “about the way you losers can't understand pop culture! Or me.”

Jared taps his fork against his tray in the seat to Jensen's left. They're supposed to be voting on new song suggestions to bring to Mr. Morgan, but it’s a nice day—sunny and bright—so they’d taken the opportunity to eat outdoors; and pretty much all that’s been accomplished this lunch period has been Chad upping his whacko factor.

“I second Jensen,” Jared says, “It does make you sound like an asshole. At least The Jared thinks so.”

Throwing his hands up in the air, Chad leans his head against the back of his chair, squeezes his eyes shut, like any second now he's going to fly into a dramatic fit.

“Seriously, _you_ have a say in this now? Guy who, up until a few weeks ago, pranced around this school like some kinda prom queen. Kind of calling the kettle a bitch, there, dude.”

Jensen glances over at Jared, who looks embarrassed about his past tomfoolery. Like now that he's gotten a small taste of what Lost and Found is all about, he's grown a conscience. It's sort of endearingly sweet, makes Jensen want to pat Jared's hand and congratulate him on his journey of self-growth. Maybe coo a little, rock Jared tenderly against his pecs. Totally normal things like that.

Clearing his throat, because he needs to not have those kinds of thoughts about his very platonic friend from Glee with the winning smile and the charming biceps, Jensen shrugs a shoulder, forces his mind to focus on the topic at hand. “Sometimes, Chad, you do come across as,” a pause, an apologetic cringe, “unlikable. Sometimes!”

“Unlikable,” Chad scoffs. He looks to the girls. “Ladies, please. School this mother. Tell of the ma- _heeeh_ -ny ways I am too awesome to ever be unlikable. You want to start off by listing my haunting good looks? That's all good with me. Let's go. Bring it!” he crows.

Jensen waits through the silence.

Genevieve looks like she might climb across the table and slap the stupid out of Chad. Danneel, at least, seems amused, like Chad is their resident twerp and underneath the offensiveness of his vocabulary lies a heart of gold. Or whatever.

Jared says, “Dude. Ouch. That's a reverent silence of you being _wrong_. Smack it,” he then demands, holding up a palm to Jensen. Jensen only stares in confusion. What is going on here? Does Jared need some hand sanitizer? That would make sense, because you would not _believe_ the cesspool of germs these tables—

“God, give him a high-five already!” Katie cries out, annoyed, and she might as well have shouted _JENSEN IS SOCIALLY AWKWARD_ , because that's what everyone else hears. There is snickering.

Jensen taps palms with Jared, pulls away fast when he feels this flesh-to-flesh warmth that smacks into him, slides down his arm, hits his chest like a mack truck. 

He's a freak. God, he's such a freak.

Chad picks up a chip, brings it up to his mouth, then changes his mind, dropping it in disgust. “Whatevs. No biggie. Get your hate on. That's cool. Who cares? I have no use of my legs. Congratulations, asswipes, you just made the wheelchair kid feel like _shit_. And now I hate you.”

“Just so long as your _hate_ doesn't interfere with choreo again during practice today,” Katie digs, "whatever.”

“Don't sound too worked up over it or anything,” Chad bristles.

Katie picks at her nails. “I'm not.”

Feeling the need for a change in topic, Jensen releases a breath of air, brings up something he'd been wanting to talk about for a while. He ‘ahems’, and then starts. “I know everyone had grown accustomed to me taking charge after Mr. Morgan left—” 

“Not really,” snarks Genevieve.

Jensen only falters slightly, for he is far too strong-minded to let the haters bring him down. Also, Genevieve has horrible hair today, so her opinion counts for squat.

“But since he's back, I wanted to thank you, all of you, for sticking with Glee, even though you could've quit at any time.” His eyes find Jared's, and he tries not to think about how helpless he’d felt when Jared had packed it up; instead, he remembers the way things are now. Jared had chosen them, he’s chosen _him_. “You picked the least popular option, and I say that based on Facebook polls, not actual reality, because,” he beams, “show choir's _the best_. But, uh, you stuck it out, and I appreciate that, so…” He drags the collar of his shirt away from his neck, swallows. “Thanks, or whatever. Thanks.”

“Dude,” Chad says after the longest five seconds of Jensen's life. “That was so Brokeback.”

Jared's smirking, this mix between teasing and something else lighting up his eyes. “Jensen,” he says, and there's this hitch in his voice, this slow, Southern lilt, “I wish I knew how to quit you.”

Everyone laughs, and even though Jensen's heart rockets into his throat, taps this trapped, insane beat right there where he breathes, he forces out a smile, because it's funny, haha, he's so unquittable. Yeah, that's what Jensen Ackles is.

Danneel huffs, “You guys are such a-holes,” but she's grinning, pushing at Chad's shoulder, teasing.

Katie drops her head onto the table, closes her eyes, and lets out a loud yawn. “Whatever.”

Jensen’s gaze roams across the benches until he finds Jared’s table. Or, as of today, his _former_ table. Sophia’s holding court, Brock the ever-loyal lapdog at her side, and Jensen’s interest is piqued when he sees Brock’s arm come up to rest around her shoulders for a second before she brushes him off without skipping a beat. Huh. So that’s how it is. He wonders if Jared knows that his BFF has the hots for his girl. Ex-girl! Whatever. Brock obviously needs a refresher on bros before hos. 

“Hey,” Genevieve says, interrupting Jensen’s train of thought. She smiles at Katie, slips a sheet of paper over to her. “Here.”

Katie raises her head, sits up. “What's this?”

It's a flier. From where Jensen's sitting across the table, he gets a glimpse. “Some whale saving campaign,” pipes Chad, “from the looks of it.”

“Noah and the Whale's playing,” Genevieve says, and something like an actual smile tugs at her mouth. “Thursday night. It's a pretty sweet deal. Tickets are, like, crazy cheap. Like practically free.”

Katie gives Gen a smile, sort of disinterested and patronizing but friendly, all wrapped into one. “That's nice, Genny,” she says, handing the flier back before picking up her fork.

Genevieve swallows back a little hurt, and Jensen sort of wishes the ground beneath him would swallow him up, because, man. Uncomfortable. He sneaks a glance at Chad and Jared, but both the boys are pointedly making it super obvious that they are doing everything but listening. Danneel is toweling the grease off her French fries, but she's making a pretty strenuous effort to seem disinterested, too.

“We should go,” Genevieve says to Katie, over-the-top and enthusiastic, the words spilling out of her. It's such a startling contrast to, you know, _her_.

Katie offers up another empty, oblivious smile. “Like, what. To the concert?”

“Well, yeah. The band's pretty stellar—well, okay, they're no Fleet Foxes, but I've heard they put on a good live show. So yeah. We should go.”

“Uhh.” Katie laughs. “Just the two of us?” She glances at the rest of the table, like, _Hey, remember these other people? Our friends?_

Chad coughs _Awkward!_ into his hand, and Genevieve goes pink.

“Dude,” Jared says, staring at Chad like _What the fuck, man? Uncool._

Gen covers, forces a laugh. “No! What? No! Not, like, hey, let's me and you go to this together, just us! No. _Weird_ ,” she scoffs. “Everyone should go. Everyone,” she repeats, less enthusiastic.

Katie shrugs, shoves a forkful of salad into her mouth. “I've got a date that night. Sorry.”

“Oh, cool. That's cool. Good for you. It's cool.” Gen smiles, brittle, looks down quickly so her hair falls over her face. She flips over the flier and starts sketching on it with a pencil she pulls out of her backpack, but Katie's eyes go round with this manic glow. 

“Guess who with,” Katie orders. “With Jason Manns, can you _believe it_?” It ends on this high pitched note, almost a squeal.

Danneel leans into Chad, who is sitting between her and Katie. “Shut _up_!” she says. 

Katie clamps her mouth closed, nods up and down really big.

“You're lying!” Danneel says. “You're such a liar. He graduated like two years ago.” 

All the pent-up air comes rushing out when Katie laughs. “I know! _So_ over high school boys.”

“This is emasculating,” Chad notes, even though he looks completely okay with having two girls pressed into him on either side. Jensen narrows his eyes, and yeah, Chad is definitely trying to casually catch a good view of cleavage.

“So, come on,” Danneel says. “Spill the deets. When did he ask you out? What'd he say? Oh my god, did you guys hook up already?”

Danneel and Katie spiral into Girl Talk, which Chad watches as if it’s a spectator sport. His head actually bounces back and forth, like he's at a tennis match. A serve of _He looked so dreamy, swear to god, and he had his guitar out, and he sang me a song and I could've DIED_ , matched with a back-handed return of _I could slit your throat right now, you're such a slut! Sorry, that's me being jealous. Never mind. What song did he sing? If it was “Crazy Love”, I swear, I will choke you. Sorry._

Jared leans on his elbows, stretches half way across the table, and like he's tethered to Jared’s every movement, Jensen takes notice.

“Hey,” Jared says, low, to Genevieve. “Noah and the Whale, right?”

She's got her head angled down, got almost half of the back of the flier filled up with her doodles. Instead of what Jensen expects her artistic renderings to be—skulls, daggers, other angry things—Genevieve's etching out a night sky, has the moon shaded in the corner, something like the Northern Lights spilling across the page in shades of gray.

“Yeah,” Genevieve huffs without looking up.

“Nice.”

She raises her eyes, still wary, guarded. “Yeah,” she says again.

“We should go,” Jared volunteers, and he looks so sincere, so earnest, that Jensen's affection for him triples on the spot.

Gen lifts her head, confusion making her brows pinch together. “What?”

Jared catches on to Jensen's silent (and probably pretty creepy—god, Ackles, you have a set of working vocal cords. Maybe use them once in a while?) staring, gives him a half-smile. Gestures towards himself, then Jensen, and tells Genevieve, “We should go.”

And just like that, Jensen gets invited along.

“You're serious?” Genevieve asks., like she's grappling with the idea of it.

Jared eases back, and like it's nothing at all, like it's not a big deal, he hangs his arm across the back of Jensen's chair. “I would kill,” he says, tapping the side of his hand against Jensen's back, just does it, “to hear them play “5 Years Time”. Seriously, I'd slaughter something to hear that. Cows, babies, the entire cast of _Jersey Shore_. I'd kill 'em for it.”

“Yeah,” Genevieve says, in awe and at a loss for words, and, yeah, holy crap, Jensen is well in tune with that right now. Because Jared keeps brushing his fingers against Jensen's spine, and maybe all he wants to do in response is saddle up to a piano and pour out his feelings through lyrical interpretation, but. That's totally normal, right?

From lunch, they make their way back inside as a group, which has Jensen marveling how monumental this moment would look as a scene from a movie. Something hip and kinda rough playing on the soundtrack to accompany their swagger. He’s thinking maybe Sleigh Bell’s “Crown on the Ground”, and a slow-mo effect to really emphasize the magnitude of a closed social bracket, different angles of them laughing, high-fiving, carrying on. 

Yeah. Cue the credits.

 

~~~~ ♫~~~~

 

“I like hearing you play,” Jared tells him, closing his algebra textbook and slumping back into the cushions of the couch.

“Yeah?” Jensen asks, eager, fingers stilling over the keys of the Steinway. He clears his throat, settle, settle. Quieter, “You do?”

“Yep,” Jared confirms, “you should write some of your own music sometime. Could be the next Ben Folds.”

“I’m way better looking than that guy,” Jensen scoffs. 

Jared laughs, quick and sharp. “Well yeah, that’s true.” There’s a pause in conversation then, a silence that fills the room as Jensen argues with himself that Jared saying he’s hotter than a guy with a rapidly receding hairline and grandpa glasses is not equal to him acknowledging his undying attraction and declaring he spends his nights with a bottle of Jergens and moving Technicolor images of the two of them performing positions 33 through 49 of the Kama Sutra. 

“You ever do that?”

“Uh.” _All the freaking time_. “I mean, what?”

“Write your own songs.”

“Not so much.” He shrugs. “It’s hard enough getting people to notice me performing music they’re already in love with.”

“Yeah, but, Jen,” Jared says, brushing his bangs back and sitting up straighter to make his point. “That’s not why you would, you know? It’s about doing something you can’t help. Something that makes you happy.”

“Singing for other people does make me happy.”

“Okay,” Jared says, palms up, grinning like, _‘Oh, Jensen, it’s just so damn charming when you’re too stupid to understand’_. “But still. We should sometime. You and me.” 

“You and me what?” he asks, though, duh, whatever it is the answer is _yes_.

“Should write a song,” Jared says, slow, like didn’t he just spell out exactly that?

“Oh! Right.” He nods. “If you want.” 

“Yeah,” Jared says, standing and stretching his arms over his head, popping his back. Jensen drops his eyes before Jared has the chance to notice him staring at the tanned strip of skin along his stomach that peeks out as his t-shirt rides up. 

Jared grins. “Scoot over,” he demands, plopping down next to Jensen on the padded bench. “Play something for me.” 

Jensen scratches his fingernails against his chin and then announces, “All you need is love,” before his fingers meet the keys of the piano. It’s a little weird to be singing all gung-ho with Jared sitting so close by, thigh brushing against Jensen’s own, the heat of his body causing Jensen to misjudge a note or two. And probably he should have thought twice before singing the first song that popped into his head—“Elephant Love Medley”—because singing a song to Jared about prostitutes and the men who love them is probably not the most kick-ass awesome idea. 

Still though, there’s slightly odd and kinda uncomfortable, and then there’s Jared laughing and opening his mouth to croon " _Don’t leave me this way, I can’t survive without your sweet love, oh baby, don’t,_ " in an overly-enthusiastic fashion. Which, yeah, just happened, and is, by the way, totally bizarre.

Jensen’s hands freeze. He twists his head to give Jared a look. “You _know_ this?” 

Jared smiles at him, shakes his head. “Just because I can’t sing along to the black&whites doesn’t mean I haven’t seen movies from the last ten years, you know.”

“Point,” Jensen says. Then, “I just didn’t know you watched musicals at all if they weren’t being forced on you.” 

Jared shrugs. “I like that movie a lot.” 

“Yeah,” Jensen tells him, “me too.” 

Jared’s looking right at him, goofy grin still stretched across his face, and Jensen asks, “You play?” mostly as an attempt to break the pattern of swirling his head’s got goin’ on.

“Little bit. Not much. I’ve messed around on a keyboard a few times.” He lifts a finger, brings it down on G6 with a klunk.

“That’s real good, Jay,” Jensen deadpans. “You’re a natural.”

“Whatever, Ackles. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Jared tells him, then starts straight in on “Chopsticks”. 

Jensen chuckles, matches him on the duet. Jared’s not bad, it seems simple for him, and the truth is he probably really is a natural. One of those people born with the ability to excel at whatever they want. Like athletics, or playing any instrument their hands touch, or solving complex linear equations. Or, yeah, driving other people crazy-insane with the want to just grab them and rub up against their body, creepy perv-in-a-trench coat-style, every time they walk into the room.

Jensen knocks his elbow against Jared’s arm. “Keep up,” he tells him, speeding the notes to a quicker tempo. Jared does, easy, and Jensen picks up the pace again, impressed when Jared still follows along. Their hands are flying across the keys now, some manic version of the waltz, and he snickers when Jared fumbles as Jensen plays on. 

“Slow it down, asshat,” Jared says, then nudges Jensen with his thigh. Jensen chooses to go the route of tease by way of ignoring, until Jared latches onto his forearm. Jensen continues, one-handed, until Jared traps him by wrapping his own hand around Jensen’s wrist. He leans his weight away, laughing, fighting to untangle from Jared’s grasp. But Jared grips hard and twists Jensen towards him until Jensen stills, because, well. Basically what they are doing now is called _holding hands_. 

Jensen brings his gaze up, finds Jared staring at him, and he closes his eyes, breathes deep and opens them back up. Jared licks his lips then speaks, chokes Jensen’s name out, once. 

“Jared?” 

“Yeah.” Jared releases him, draws a hand down Jensen’s side, stopping at his waist. He searches Jensen’s face, leans forward until he’s right there, all up in his space.

“What’re you—”

“This is the part where you just shut up and kiss me,” Jared says, breathes against his mouth, before his lips brush against Jensen’s, and Jensen freezes. Long seconds tick by and he feels Jared start to pull away before he hums out a small complaint and kisses back. 

Jensen doesn’t have a lot of experience with kissing. Okay, the truth is Jensen has barely _any_ experience with kissing. Just one brief make-out session with a girl his cousin dumped in his lap at a party when Dad shipped him off to his aunt’s a summer back. And, well, that kiss was basically what confirmed to Jensen that he’s gay.

This, _this_ , is nothing like that. Jensen’s not sure how to describe it but words like ‘epic’ and ‘life-making’ spring to mind. Jared’s lips are soft and they move slowly against his. Then he opens up and Jensen feels his stomach drop. Still, it comes as a shock when he feels Jared’s tongue inside his mouth. He wills his nerves away, anxious doubts that he’s doing it all wrong, and pushes back slowly into Jared’s mouth. And then it’s really happening, they’re kissing—inside each other’s mouths—and Jensen closes his eyes, lifts a hand to wrap around the back of Jared’s neck.

Jared shifts, tightening the grip he has at Jensen’s waist. He moves in deeper, intensifying the kiss, and Jensen tilts his head, leans into it. _Jared_. 

It’s over, too quick, when Jared pulls away, breathing heavy and still holding on to Jensen tight, all wide eyes. Jensen watches his face, gaze sliding from his eyes to focus on his mouth, his kiss-flushed lips, then moving back up. Jensen can feel the crazy thump-thump of his heart as Jared sucks his lower lip into his mouth. A whole marching band starting up in his chest. 

Jared stares, swallows hard, then says, “Jensen.” 

“Yeah?”

“I gotta go.”

**ACT THREE**

Jensen doesn’t think sharing a first kiss typically ends with one of the participants rushing out the door like they just swapped spit with Heidi Montag in front of millions of home viewers, but yeah. That happened. Not that Jared acknowledges it in any way when he struts up to Jensen’s locker the next morning and jokes about how crappy last night’s rerun of _South Park_ was. He then moves the subject on to how much he hates that he has a quiz in Science this afternoon, clearly checking out Adrianne Palicki as she passes by—gaze roaming over the section of t-shirt that stretches tight across her chest and following up with a lingering eye on her ass as she moves down the hall—and. That’s fine! Jensen gets it. If he had an ounce of hetero in his body he would be looking, too. Adrianne is leggy and busty and blonde, and truthfully she’s probably the hottest girl in school. So. Whatever. 

Jared rambles on, oblivious to Jensen’s non-response, and ends the talk with a slap on his back as the bell rings. Jared turns around when he’s about ten steps gone and adds happily, “See you at lunch!” before continuing towards class. Guess the plan is to repress and deny, then. Good, fine, got it. Loud and clear. 

Which is why Jensen ends up mostly feeling like _what?_ when Jared mentions—with half a slice of pizza shoved into his mouth—that they should catch a movie that night. Because seriously, if you want to discourage some socially mal-adjusted dude with an awkward crush, the last thing you should do after you make-out with said guy in a moment of temporary fail, is invite him to an outing that is largely considered by the vast majority of society as a _date_. 

Unless, of course, what Jared is doing here is proving to them both that they’re just friends. Buddies who hang! Like, move along, Jensen. No sexual tension involved here, folks. 

This train of thought is what leads him to slide into his loosest fitting jeans when he gets home from practice. He pairs them with an old, washed-up Beatles t-shirt that is one frayed thread away from busting a hole. No way is he dressing up for his maybe-date-probably-not. He shoves his arms through a gray cashmere zip-up sweater to finish off, though. There’s showing the guy you want to do six ways from Sunday that you’re cool with just being friends and then there is just plain being an eye-sore to the public at large. 

He rushes out to meet Jared at his car before he can come calling at Jensen’s door. Greets him with a fist bump. He pays for his own movie ticket and declines on snacks when Jared offers at the concession stand. 

The usher rips their tickets and points them to a theater house down the hall. Jared chooses a seat in the back row, which causes Jensen long seconds of panic as he tries to sort out exactly what that means. _Probably means he likes to sit in the back, dipshit_ , Jensen thinks, and then drops down next to him, trying to look casual about what and what is not proper when it comes to arm placement. Jared's claimed most of the armrest, but that means, what, that Jensen's got to sit here limp-armed the whole time? Then Jensen notices how close Jared's bouncing knee is to his own, and thank God the lights start to dim, because he might've sat there another five minutes, just calculating the space between them in relation to decency versus indecency versus creepy. 

Jensen glances over and Jared slips him some sly, amused look, which could probably be classified as a smirk, but it still makes Jensen's heart flop around irregularly in his chest. Great, now he's having heart palpitations over a smile. 

His hands start to sweat—Jensen refuses to delve into his rich and deep lameness over it—so he rubs them across his knee, drawing small circles in the hollow part of his palm, when, like some music-stopping, time-crawling part of a chick flick, he accidentally whacks Jared in the leg. Then freezes. Then mentally curses about a hundred times, a hundred different ways. Then waits for a reaction. Seconds painfully crawl by. Jensen's fingers are still grazing the side of Jared's leg. Moving them would probably make sense, but it's been, what, like ten whole seconds and he hasn't done it yet? If he does it now, it'll look like he was some creeper copping a feel, but if he keeps his cool, it's like, oh look, my hand just landed here completely not on purpose and because Jared's taking up almost all of the whole armrest, who could fault him, hmm? 

"Hey," Jared whispers, and quick, Jensen snaps his hand away like he's got something to be sorry for. He's fumbling with the words to apologize and explain, but Jared just slips a couple of sugar-covered worms into his hand, and Jensen shuts up.

The trailers finish flashing across the screen and the movie starts up and Jensen relaxes back into his seat. He can do this. He totally can. It will be like two hours of agony similar to some modern form of Chinese water torture, but because he is a guy used to strict self-regulating in dedication to his craft, he will prevail. Victorious. You know, as one normally crowns themselves champion for surviving a movie.

By the time the opening credits start rolling, Jensen's mostly calmed his nerves. True, as a social leper his interaction with kids his age is severely limited, especially outside the structured walls of high school, but that doesn't mean he's completely inadequate at kicking it, as they say. Hanging out. Chilling with his peeps.

Jensen pops one of the gummies into his mouth, only has a flickering thought about what it might mean that Jared gave it to him, because classically, on a date, when there is shared candy, that's like a prevailing sign of commitment, right? But, enough. He shuts that voice inside his head up. For once he wants more than to be outside of the moment, he wants to actually live in one. He doesn't want to deconstruct and analyze, pick everything apart, he just wants to sit here, chew on some freaking sour worms, and be a guy at the movies with someone he thinks is cool.

Smiling, Jared nudges Jensen in the shoulder, leans over. Leans into him, so close Jensen can smell the gum he was chewing on the car ride over. Something minty. His face is mostly shadows, but the glow of the movie projecting from a room behind them casts off a yellowish light, gives him sharp, cutting angles.

“Ten to one,” Jared says, voice lowered, “that couple over there,” he nods his head at a guy and a girl six rows in front of them, “is here to make-out. The erotic atmosphere of a public theater, with bonus pee smell.”

From there, Jensen's eyes skip over three rows, where an older lady sits by herself. There's a huge tub of popcorn in her lap, already half gone. “She paid someone to watch her cats so she could see this movie.”

Jared laughs, “Wow, Jensen. Okay. The gloves come off. Smack talking little old ladies. Seriously, I didn't know you had it in you. The _darkness_.”

The girl who’s snuggled into the crook of her guy’s arm all those rows in front of them aims an angry glare towards Jared and Jensen, as if reminding them that they're breaking some well-known code of ethics by talking in the hallow, sacred grounds of a movie theater.

Jared gives off a responding will-shut-up-so-sorry-to-disturb-you grin, but says to Jensen, “Throw a worm at her.”

And Jensen's head whips in Jared's direction, scandal all across his face. “I'm not throwing a worm at her!” Said worms are sticky warm in his hand, flecks of sugar stuck between the creases of his palm.

Jared shrugs like it's no big deal to him, he was just tossing a casual suggestion out there, whatever, and settles into the curve of his seat with a lot of over-the-top theatrics. Somehow his arm winds up behind Jensen, just hanging there nonchalantly at the back of his chair, which is cool. No big deal. Nothing worth internalizing and dissecting and writing about in his journal and—it probably means Jared's gay for him, right? No, no. He's a jock. Jocks are only socially gay. Not super serious 'want to be my boyfriend because I think you're pretty swell' gay. More like 'I saw this on a Lady Gaga video once, so it's cool' gay.

Jensen gives him a quick, easy going smile, one that hides his current inner-crazy, and Jared returns it, big. Then brushes his fingers across the back of Jensen's neck, and whoa, okay, that is touching, then. Jensen surges up and out of his seat. Jared leans forward like he's copying, but Jensen bursts out with, “No! Sit. Stay.”

With worried eyes, Jared asks, “You okay?”

“Fine,” he bites out, “you know what they, uh, what they say. When you gotta go, you gotta... go. I gotta go.” Why is he still talking? Why?

About-facing, Jensen leaves a bewildered Jared behind, heads for the safety of the bathroom.

Clunking his head against a stall door, he mutters, “Stupid, stupid,” but he can still feel where Jared touched him.

Officially, Jensen might be having the type of more-than-platonic feelings for Jared that do not allow him to function in a remotely rational way. Crap.

Two hours later, Jared pulls his car out of the theater parking lot, flicks on his head lights. Jensen's in the passenger seat, buckled up, channeling his need for self-preservation by staring out the window, because that, back there? With the pre-movie freak-out? That was as humiliating as singing off-key.

“So,” Jared says, and Jensen blurts, “What!”

Jared throws a glance Jensen's way, laughs a little. “That was kinda lame.”

Jensen bristles, re-shifts his legs. Ignores the Burger King wrappers making noise underneath his feet. If the number of them is anything to go by, Jared has a really poor diet. “Lame is such a... a vulgar word. Kind of rough, mean-spirited, though, I’ve been called worse.”

“I'm talking about the movie.”

Oh, right, that. Of course.

“I'm,” Jensen says weakly, “a staunch and loyal defender of poorly produced films.”

“Cool.”

The rest of the drive is made in silence. When Jared pulls up beside Jensen's house, he switches off the engine, takes a big breath and lets it out slow. “So, hey, I wanted to tell you something.” 

Jensen deflates in his seat. Great, this is the part he’s been waiting for, Jared making some excuse why they can’t hang anymore. Figures. Not that Jensen can blame him. If he’d acted any more neurotic tonight, some sort of meds administered through an IV probably would’ve been needed. 

Jensen screws up his mouth, goes for deflection. “Is it about my awesome and perfectly styled hair? Because I’m sorry, but that mop on top of your head will never reach this level of amazing, so don’t even bother.”

Jared rolls his eyes, cracks his knuckles into his fist. “No,” he says, “Jensen. It’s just, uh. Sometimes when you spend a lot of time with another person you develop, um.” Jared stops the sentence, utters a short curse under his breath before picking back up. “I mean, you look at that, um, person and you just wanna—”

“Be them if only for a day?”

“Jensen,” Jared warns. Jensen raises his hands, lifts his shoulders up in an exaggerated shrug. Like _Whaaaat? Just doing my best to spread the truth of your feelings here, sport._

Jared heaves out a breath, the sound of frustration coming out through the air. “Aw, screw it,” he says, and then the next thing Jensen knows, Jared’s lips are pushed firmly onto his mouth. And hey! Guess if there was ever a way to shut Jensen up, Jared just found it.

He kisses Jensen determinedly, bringing a hand up to touch his face, cradling around his jaw as Jensen kisses back. Jared pulls away after long seconds, resting his forehead against Jensen’s before pulling back. And wow. That actually just _happened_. 

Jensen pauses, waits for Jared’s reaction, but then can’t help it, busts out his biggest and most genuine grin, and says, “That was... just like the movies. I think I felt the power of a touching ballad swelling in the background!” 

Something like relief spreads over Jared’s features, and he lets out a quick chuckle, then shakes his head, says, “You’re such a dork.”

Jensen smiles. “You _like_ me.”

Jared looks at him, soft, so tender it wipes the stupid grin right off Jensen’s face and makes his chest tighten up. “Yeah,” Jared finally says, “I do.” And the way he’s staring makes Jensen melt all over. Clueless as to how to respond to someone like _Jared_ looking at him like that, Jensen goes right ahead and breaks the mood by pursing his lips and nodding smugly. Jared's mouth forms a smirk, then he says, “C’mere,” and pulls Jensen in close, presses against his lips again.

And if Jensen's reaction was an inner-performance of a little Jason Mraz, a stirring rendition of “I’m Yours” complete with a choir soulfully humming backup, well. Jared never needed to know.

 

~~~~ ♫~~~~

 

Jared's pulling Jensen by the elbow, guiding him into immoral territory.

“It's not _immoral_ ,” Jared says, flashing trust-me eyes at Jensen. “It's one of those time honored traditions, you know, passed on through the years from generation to generation. Legendary. Like how you know to avoid the school meatloaf.”

“I use my enhanced intuitive of having _eyeballs_ for that,” Jensen huffs, but he's not fighting any more. He's letting himself be willingly led around the corner of the school, to the football field. The bleachers reach tall into the sky, all looming and omniscient. Debauchery in structural form.

“Everyone knows the meatloaf is made from rat,” Jared preaches on. “Caught from the school basement, too.”

Jensen dials up the sarcasm. “You sweet talker. Luring me here for your romance with urban legends,” and Jared stops them, gives a slow, teasing smile.

“You know,” he says, fingers running up Jensen's sleeve, “I _could_ show you my moves.”

Then someone groans, “Ugh,” from underneath the bleachers, making Jared and Jensen snap apart. Danneel's hidden in the shadows, but she pokes her head out far enough to broadcast some serious judgment. “How lame are you two, seriously?”

Jared exchanges a quick glance with Jensen, who helplessly stares back, before pulling up to his full height. “I was just. Me and Jensen, we were—” 

Danneel laughs and says, “It's cute that you think I care enough about your blossoming relationship to make up a cover story for it. _Boring_. Like George Lopez hosting the Oscars boring.” 

“Oh,” Jared says, almost offended, because them, boring? Whatever.

“We're actually,” Jensen clears his throat, “in a transitional phase.” It’s been two weeks since Jared first kissed him and Jensen is seriously hoping to take it to the next level up. Which is, uh, getting Jared naked and doings with him that are illegal in some states.

Jared sags and squeezes his eyes closed and whines, “ _Jennnnsen_.”

If only he had his graphs! No way Jared would be able to deflect the truth of the Transition Phase. “Okay, first? Hey, first we were enemies—”

“What? I never hated you!”

“You called my fall sweater collection fugly!”

“That was before we even knew each other!”

“And the pain rings on, Jared. The pain rings on!”

“Fine. I'm sorry. I’m _so_ sorry, Jensen. A few months ago, when I was a stupid, hyperactive jerk with a sweater-insulting disorder, I said some asshole things about your 'collection'.” Jensen nearly gasps: air quotes??? Oh, that is so not on. But then Jared gets all warm and sincere and says, “I'm sorry, okay? I was a dick.”

“Yeah,” Danneel teases, “no, you're right, I'm seeing magic here.” She slides a cigarette out of her purse, lights up, and takes a puff. On a smoke-filled breath out, she says, “You're magic like—”

And Jensen flips the fuck out on her. “Smoking?!” he hollers, and yeah, he realizes his voice has reached high levels of soprano, but it's just. This is dire, people! “You _smoke_? How can you smoke?”

Danneel edges backwards, like she expects Jensen to any second bare fangs and attack. “Like you're so unfamiliar with oral fixations.”

He follows her into the shady, hollowed out part beneath the bleachers. “Fact one: you're going to die. Fact two: you're shredding your vocal chords with _every_ inhale—”

“Woah, hey,” Jared cuts in, has his hands held up like he wants no part of this. “Maybe ease up with the scare tactics, there.”

Danneel shrugs. “I've smoked since I was fourteen.”

Jensen sputters for a while. “We have competition coming up!”

She shrugs, eyes big and round. “And?”

“I think what she's saying,” Jared tries, “is that it's not a big deal.”

“So not a big deal,” Danneel parrots.

“Think of your voice. Think of your lung capacity! No wonder you can't hold a flat note as long as everyone else and—”

Jared steps protectively in front of Jensen, who only notices then that Danneel is looking at him like she might use the lit part of her cigarette to burn a hole through his beloved sweater.

Sweetly through a bared smile she asks, “Would you like the continued use of _your_ vocal chords? Because I'm thinking of strangling you. Vividly.”

Jensen drops the lecture, because he appreciates the value of his own voice. Besides, Jared's staring at him like Jensen's revealed an unlikable layer of his personality, and it wouldn't help their romance along if it stalled out here over Jensen's humanitarian-like concern for his fellow choir-kind.

“So,” he peers out through the cracks in the bleachers, at the football field, gathers himself, then, like a depressing pick-up line, “Come here often?”

“Whenever there's a new ship in town.” She smiles at him sweetly.

“That's grossss—iiipping,” he manages, pulling off a smooth turn-around at the last second. “Gripping! Because you're joking. Heh. Clearly a kidder!”

Jared eyeballs him like, _Oh man, okay, this guy's a freak._ But he nods at Danneel. “Beats math class.”

“Tell me about it,” she says on another smoky exhale.

“Ditching,” Jensen agrees. “Yeah. Know a lot about that myself. The ol' class-skipping. Did it once when—”

“Jensen?”

“Yep?”

“She gets it.”

Jensen lets out a grateful breath. “Okay then.”

“So, Padalecki,” Danneel says, lips curving into a smirk. “You leading Jensen to the dark side? Bad boy.”

Jared looks damn pleased with himself. “Yeah, well. You know. I figured we'd start out soft, with ditching, then we'd work our way up to mustache-twirling 101, evil heists, bank robbery. That sort of thing.”

“Nice,” Danneel says, crushing the butt of her cigarette under her boot. She walks with purpose towards Jensen, and okay, woah! He thought they’d gotten past the whole wanting to kill him with bare hands thing. He manages to get out a strangled “Dan—” before she grabs his face in her hands, yanks him to her, and plants a kiss right on his mouth. She pulls away, a smug grin of satisfaction on her face. “Lesson two,” she says. “Now you know what cigarettes taste like.” 

She winks at Jared as she walks away. “Keep up the schooling, JT. Let me know when you’ve worked your way up to threesomes.” Jensen can still hear the twinkle of her laughter as she rounds the corner.

He scrubs a hand furiously over his mouth. Jensen narrows his eyes when Jared cracks up and slaps a hand against his thigh like he’s just seen the funniest shit ever. 

“What?” growls Jensen.

Jared opens his mouth to answer but the only thing that comes out is more amused laughter. Jerk. “I’m sorry,” he says, finally, quieting down, huge grin still plastered on. “But you should have seen your face!”

“Well, jesus christ! She _kissed_ me! On the _mouth_! With _nicotine_ lips!”

“Oh no!” Jared gasps, bringing a hand up to slap his cheek in feigned shock. “The _horror_.”

“You’re a great support here, Jared. You know, in my time of _need_. In my time of violation, both body and soul.” 

“Yeah,” Jared says, “don’t get your panties in a bunch there, sweetheart. Danneel kisses everybody. It’s just her way of saying ‘hey’ with her mouth. Means she likes you, goof.” 

“From what I’ve heard,” Jensen grumbles, “her way of saying hello extends way beyond kissing.”

“Oh, shit, yeah,” Jared confirms. “There was this one party? I saw her—”

“No! No, that’s okay,” Jensen hurries out, with a wave of the hand. “No need to finish that story. Ever.” 

Jared clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Jensen,” he says, with a sad shake of the head, “you are such a—”

“Awesome guy with impeccable fashion taste?”

“Yeah! No doubt. You took the words straight from my mouth, man.” Jared reaches for him, drags him in until they’re chest to chest. “So,” he says, as he wraps his arms around Jensen’s waist. “Pretty sure I brought you out here so _I_ could kiss that mouth of yours.” Then he does just that. And it’s good. It’s _always_ good, makes Jensen’s heart race, gets his dick stirring in his pants. But as he presses in closer, laces his hands around Jared's neck, the thought of Jared partying with Danneel doesn’t leave. He wonders how much firsthand experience Jared has with her “hellos”. Starts thinking of how much acquaintance Jared might have with sex in general, and if the interrupted word that he had meant to describe Jensen with might’ve actually come out as ‘prude’. 

Jensen’s no prude. He may not have much (any) practice with sex aside from his right hand, but. He’s going to change that. Tonight. 

 

~ ♫~ 

 

Jensen smoothes over the collar of his shirt. Lifts his arms to sniff at his pits. All good there. He checks his hair one last time in the mirror decorating the front hall before he answers the doorbell.

Jared tilts his head to the side when Jensen greets him, his eyes move over the lines of Jensen’s Just Cavalli button up, draw down to take in the tight fit of his black waxed jeans and then come back up. “What’re you dressed all fancy for? Are we going somewhere because I’m not really...” he says, waving a hand over his ripped denim and t-shirt.

“What, this?” Jensen asks, pulling at his sleeve like it’s just some old rag, like he didn’t spend fifteen minutes frantically digging through his closet for something to wear. Like he’s not actually _that_ lame.

“Yeah.” Jared smirks. Then, “You look nice, Jen.” Jensen fidgets, tries to beat the blush he knows has already spread. “So. Can I come in or did you wanna stand around in your doorway all night playing What Not to Wear?”

Jensen’s set out chips and dip in the den. Jared pops one into his mouth as Jensen flips on the stereo. And oh, hey! Apparently his dad has gained some sort of psychic cock-blocking powers because a Marvin Gaye CD blares obnoxiously through the speakers spelling out in no uncertain terms Jensen’s, oh, every _subtle_ intention. Let’s get it off. Like now. He presses hurriedly at the remote until the stereo flashes _'GOODBYE'_ and shuts itself down. 

He dares a glance at Jared who is sitting on the sofa with his arms crossed over his chest. Eyebrows raised and the corners of his mouth fighting a grin. Right. Jensen is probably five seconds away from being laughed out of his own home. What he needs is... “Alcohol! Lots of it.” Huh. Guess Jared’s eyebrows really _could_ raise higher up on his forehead. “I’ve, uh, got some wine?” Jared lifts one shoulder to shrug off his suggestion. “I know how to mix a martini,” Jensen informs him, walking over to the liquor cabinet.

“Jensen.” 

“Hmm?” Jensen answers, willing himself to not start banging his head against the walnut of the cabinet door. Repeatedly. 

“Jensen,” Jared repeats, “are you trying to seduce me?” 

Jensen laughs, like, oh, sure buddy! Me? Right. This is just Jensen Ackles at his casual finest. Offering up alcoholic beverages and groovin’ to the good ol’ vibes of Marvin Gaye while dressed like a choice piece of ass from the latest nightclub is how we roll around here. Just trying to make _you_ comfortable, man. 

“You are.” Jared pauses. “Aren’t you?”

Jensen takes three seconds to stop himself from saying Mrs. Robinson’s classic _Would you like me to seduce you? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?_ come-on, and then settles for honest, says, “Well, yeah. I am.”

Jared laughs. Loudly. Jensen swallows, looks at the floor. “C’mere,” Jared says. “Come over here, Jense.” He pulls Jensen to him when he’s within arm’s reach, stands him between his open, outstretched legs.

“You don’t gotta go making everything pretty for me to get my attention, you know?”

“Was it the Marvin Gaye that made it too obvious? Because,” he pauses, pushes out a breath. “That was _totally_ not supposed to happen. My dad left that CD in there and—” Oh! That is Jared’s lap he’s straddling.

“Hmm,” Jared says, hands resting on Jensen’s hips. “What was it exactly you planned on doing to me? You know, after you got me good and drunk enough to fall for your indecent intentions.” 

“Um.” Jensen swallows. “I, uh, didn’t really get that far?”

“You didn’t?”

“Not in, like, great detail.” 

“So,” Jared says, “what you’re saying is, you don’t ever think of me with my clothes off? Maybe pushed all up against you,” he continues, manhandling Jensen’s body down his lap until their hips meet, “like this?” 

“God. I mean, jesus, yes.” Jensen swallows, placing both of his palms on Jared’s chest, feeling the solid muscle there. “I think about you like that all the time,” he admits quickly, holding his breath as he waits for Jared’s response.

“Good.” 

“You mean that?”

Jared jerks his hips up, lets Jensen feel the hard bulge of his dick through his pants. “Pretty sure I do.” 

He leans forward and places a kiss on Jensen’s mouth, waits for Jensen to kiss back. It’s slow, searching for a moment before Jensen brings a hand up to tangle in Jared’s hair, gives it a tug. Jared moans, right into Jensen’s mouth, digs fingers into his waist. Jensen moves his hips, riding Jared’s lap, and Jensen just, _yeah_. 

Jared shifts his body, stretching out across the couch and bringing Jensen down on top of him, Jared licking back into his mouth. He spans his hands over Jensen’s ass, squeezes into the flesh there as he drives his hips up, making these, _god_ , totally amazing sounds. Jensen pulls from the kiss, sits up, straddles Jared’s waist.

“What?” Jared asks. “Did I do something wrong? ‘Cause Jensen, we don’t have to—”

“You’re going to make me come!”

Jared grins, gives Jensen a slow nod. “Yeah, that’s, uh, kinda the point.”

“No, but,” Jensen says, “not with my clothes _on_. These are $700 jeans!”

“Wow, that is... pretty fucking disturbing, actually.”

“They were a gift,” Jensen protests.

“From who? Your sugar daddy?”

“No, from my absent daddy. Whatever, don’t judge me. I know you could buy a small island with your weight sets.”

Jared laughs, brings Jensen’s hand up to his mouth and places a quick kiss to the inside of his wrist. “I like you,” he says. “So much.” 

“I like you too, Jare. Equally as much.” He takes a breath. “If not more so.” Jared smiles at him—blinding—raises one eyebrow and then, good christ, he palms at the outline of Jensen’s cock. 

“Has anyone ever touched you like this before?”

Jensen shakes his head, swallows around his tongue. “No? What about like this?” Jared pops the button on his jeans, pulls at the zipper, and Jensen feels a rush. This is it. _It_. Like, Jared is about to take Jensen’s cock out and, damn, he prays he’s not going to come at first touch.

Jared’s staring down at where his fingers wrap around Jensen, his mouth hangs open, like he’s shocked this is happening, like he can’t even believe it himself. He runs his palm down Jensen’s entire length, once, and then comes back up. “Jensen,” he breathes, “jesus that’s hot.” He works his other hand into the opening of his own pants and Jensen watches, stares really, as he brings his dick out from his boxers. It’s big. Like crazy thick and long, and looks like it was meant more for porn than a quiet evening with a virgin on his daddy’s couch. There’s a drop of precome gathered at the tip and Jared rubs at it, smearing it across his head, tightening his grip on Jensen’s cock. 

“This okay?” he asks, and Jensen manages some mumbled version of _yeeeeah_ , eyes never leaving the motions of Jared’s hand tugging up and down his own shaft, mirroring the movements he’s performing on Jensen. He’s gentle with Jensen, moving more soft and slow than he’s used to, but it feels, fuck. It feels _incredible_ , like probably nothing has never felt this amazing before. Even though Jensen has the most kick-ass massage therapist _ever_. 

Jared’s pumping up into his fist, just going for it right in front of him, and Jensen’s so turned on watching that he thinks he might actually pass out. Like plop right over in the middle of his first hand-job. That’ll have Jared back for seconds! No doubt. 

Jared takes his hand off Jensen’s dick, brings it to his mouth and licks over the palm, he reaches for Jensen again, jerks him off with quick twists of his wrist. “Oh,” Jensen moans, “Oh, _shit_.”

“Yeah?” Jared asks, breathy, voice turned down low. “You like the way I feel around you?” 

Jensen makes a high keening sound which he sure hopes Jared interprets as _JESUS MOTHERFUCKING CHRIST. YES. I DO._

“Fuck, Jensen, you’re so hot. Those sounds, you look all...” he trails off, closing his eyes, and when he opens them up again, he lets go a short whine from the back of his throat. He pulls off of his dick, places his hand on Jensen’s hip, stroking along the skin there. “Touch me,” he begs. “Jensen. Please, come on, _please_. Touch me back.”

Jensen stares down at Jared’s cock jutting out from his body, bouncing with every thrust of Jared’s hips that are rocking Jensen along with him. He grabs at the hem of Jared’s shirt, pulls it up until the taut lines of his stomach are shown. Jensen draws his fingertips over the tanned skin there, up and up until the shirt lifts past his ribs, baring his chest. He rubs both palms over Jared’s pecs, brushes his nipples with his thumbs before he draws back down. He hesitates when his hands reach Jared’s stomach. He brings his gaze up and Jared smiles at him, soft, gives him a quick nod. Jensen’s stomach tightens and then, finally, he just goes for it, wraps his fingers around Jared’s cock, gives it a light squeeze. Jared lets out a quick gasp, pushes up into the touch. Jensen draws his fingertips up along Jared’s dick, touching him gently, exploring, he circles his thumb when he reaches the head. 

Jared’s skin is soft, smooth, dick plumped up and so hard in Jensen’s hand. He meets Jared’s eyes again, can’t hold back a grin, like, _Look! I’m really doing it. I’m really touching you like this._ He feels a sudden tightness in his chest, the weight of it all, the heaviness of what it means to be with Jared in this way.

Jared lets go a whoosh of air when Jensen’s fist closes around his cock, pulls down and tugs back up. He sets a steady rhythm, trying to mimic the movements Jared’s got going on Jensen’s cock. He thinks from the way Jared’s entire chest is flushed, color spreading up to his neck, that he’s doing it right, that Jared likes the way it feels, too. Still, he can’t help but ask, “Is this... Jared... is this good?” 

Jared stares down at where Jensen’s hand is moving over his cock, a short ‘mmm’ comes from his mouth. “Yeah, that’s... that’s really fucking goo—” He stops, and then his breath hitches, eyes pinching up, as he shoots all over himself. It takes Jensen by surprise, shocks him really, and the image of watching _that_ just happen makes him lose it, come all over Jared’s stomach, his chest, a stray drop or two finding their way onto the t-shirt he’s still got on. 

Jensen pants, breathless, as a wave of dizziness washes over him. The urge to just collapse on top of Jared’s chest. Jared’s hands settle on his hips. Jensen raises his head to find him grinning. “Jensen,” he says. “You came all over me.”

Jensen laughs, but it comes out more like a giggle, then he nods, says, “Yeah, I did. Better you than me, though. Those stains would be a bitch to explain at the dry cleaners.”

Jared rolls his eyes, sits up and pulls Jensen into a kiss. Jensen smiles against his mouth, kisses back, and takes a mental snapshot of this moment. He wants to make it last forever.

 

~~~~ ♫~~~~

 

Jared picks Jensen up on his way to school the next morning, pulling up fifteen minutes late, but making up for it with the grande latte he shoves into Jensen’s hand before he can even open his mouth to start in on his views regarding promptness. Jensen holds the coffee in both hands, lets his fingers warm around the paper cup. 

“Hi,” Jared says, and Jensen’s lips quirk up as he fights the want to shout something entirely lame like, WE TOTALLY GOT NAKED AND MADE EACH OTHER COME LAST NIGHT! WASN’T THAT THE BEST THING EVER, JARED! DON’T YOU WANT TO GO AT IT AGAIN! HOW DOES RIGHT NOW WORK FOR YOU, HOLLA! What he says is: “Hey.”

Jared smiles, lazy, and scrubs a hand across his eye. “Sleepy,” he tells Jensen, shaking his head, pushing away the fog. He turns the stereo up, Dave Matthews this morning, and Jensen takes long gulps from his latte as they drive. 

Jared navigates into a parking space and kills the engine, his old VW Bug sputtering to a stop as it shuts itself down. Jensen stares out the windshield towards the washed-out beige and tan tones of the school building, eyes the handful of students who are still loitering around after first bell. He huffs out a breath, hand frozen on the buckle of his seatbelt.

Jared reaches over, clicks the belt loose for him, hooks his pinkie around Jensen’s and gives it a tug. “Come on, we’re late,” he reminds Jensen, turning around to grab his bag from the backseat.

Jensen stalls, a dull ache dancing around in the pit of his stomach, and even though he chugged right through the goodness of Starbucks, he doesn’t think it’s from the coffee. Last night with Jared was... well, it was totally perfect was what it was, and a whole slew of other words that together formed what might as well been the definition of 'best night ever'. Jensen’s spent his entire school career alone. Being laughed at, mocked, or worse, looked right through. But last night, for the first time, he felt like he was part of something more than himself, something important, something he doesn’t want the obscurity of high school to take away.

“I don’t want to go.”

“What’s wrong?” 

“It’s nothing.”

“Hey, you alright?”

“No, it’s... I don’t want to... it’s going to sound stupid.”

“Jense—”

“It’s just, okay, I really don’t want to go in there today.”

Jared studies him for a long second, then nods. “Okay.” He slaps Jensen on the knee, like ‘hey dude, no worries’, like going to school is just an option, a choice they are free to make, like it’s perfectly fine to just _not_. He starts the engine back up.

“Jared!” Jensen sits straight up, places both hands on the dash. “What’re you doing?”

Jared has his eyes trained on the rearview mirror as he reverses. “We’re skipping today,” he informs Jensen as he shifts into first.

“Uh, Jared, I don’t _skip_ school. Ditching a class might be one thing but I can’t just go missing a whole day!”

Jared pauses with his foot on the brake at the exit of the parking lot. He turns to Jensen, bites at his lower lip. “I know, Jen, but. Stay with me today?” 

Jensen takes in Jared’s earnest expression, the morning sunlight hitting the chestnut of his hair, highlighting it with shades of auburn and gold. His face shifts into a blinding grin, dimples forming deep underneath his cheeks and Jensen smiles back, can’t help it. “Okay, alright. Yeah.”

When Jared pulls up in front of Evans park, Jensen turns to him, makes a face. “What, we can’t even go to the mall if you’re going to abduct and corrupt me?”

“Save your weird shopping fetish for your own time, Ackles.”

“Whatever. You do know there are stores that provide clothing other than Abercrombie, right?”

“Sure! I’ll just have my driver bring me around to Dolce&Gabbana this weekend, make a day of it.”

“Alrighty, Miss Daisy. I’m just impressed you’ve ever heard of the brand.”

“Oh, totally. Fendi and... that Donna, too.”

Jensen groans, shakes his head sadly. “My Humps”... you memorized fashion houses off of _lady lumps_.”

“What,” Jared protests, “I like the Alanis Morissette version, okay?”

Jensen raises a brow and clicks his tongue. “It sure is a good thing you’re so pretty.”

“Oh, suck it, Simon Cowell. You have no room to judge, I’ve seen your Hanson CDs.”

“You mean my amazingly well-catalogued collection? Complete with B-sides and covers and, oh yeah, awesome music mucking up not one part of my shame gland?”

Jared stares. “You depress me.”

“Admit it, you can't fight back. There's no argument. When Hanson plays on the radio what do you do? I'll answer for you. You nod along to your football-shaped stereo every single time.”

“I think you are confusing me with someone who has no taste. Seriously, the lyrics?”

“What about them? They’re classy. Classier than classy, they are class- _ay_.”

“I get it. You suffer from a mental illness. Sorry to hear that so soon into our relationship. Don't take it too personally if I start calling you Short Bus.”

“Suck it. Hanson. Good stuff. Google it. Hey, want to borrow my CDs?”

“Yeah, to destroy? Sure.”

“Purely for educational purposes! You need to get smart and base up.”

“I wonder if compact discs are flammable...” 

“You’re a horrible person and now I've got Hanson stuck in my head.”

“Well, I think that’s the truly horrible thing.”

“Whatever. Don't get me wrong, their hooks are classic. Which is why when they get stuck in your head, you’re doomed for a never-ending loop.” 

“Mmm,” Jared agrees, then taps his finger on his chin and says seriously, “Bop.”

Jensen rolls his eyes, gives him the finger, and then can’t help cracking up at Jared’s exaggerated pout. 

Jared slouches low in his seat and jerks his head out the window at a couple sitting on a park bench. “Lovers’ spat.”

Jensen watches as a girl gestures empathically towards the guy occupying the space next to her. “Woah.” He lets a low whistle slide out the side of his mouth. “They’re really going at it.”

Jared snickers, then starts, “Baby, why you gotta do me that way?” in a slightly high-pitched, amusement-stifling drawl, like they've entered some weird role-playing 'verse.

Jensen's looking at him like, _Wow, you have lost it today. Ditching school was the first clue, hating on Hanson a second and more blaring sign, but this? This is uncharted territory of insane._

Jared gives him the 'C’mon, it's fun!' eyes, and maybe it's that latte soaking in his gut, but you know, indulging in his inner-crazy might not be so bad. Going off script. 

“My _sister_?” Jared gasps, an invitation for Jensen to join along. “We shared the same birth canal, you creep! How could you!”

Jensen drops his voice down low, plays his part. “We were drunk, okay! I slipped and fell on her mouth and I thought she was you!”

“Oh, sure. So now you're saying I'm fat?”

The guy on the bench holds up his hands, leans back as things get more heated, and Jensen says, “Not fat. No way, baby! Bloated, you know, maybe.”

“I wear a size two jeans! You could bounce a quarter off this ass, how _dare_ you!”

Jensen watches as the guy changes tactics, body language going from defensive to aggressive in two seconds flat. “How dare _I_? More like how dare you! You've been checking out that stud muffin in the VW since they pulled up! You know, the one dressed impeccably, has that sort of down to earth but destined for stardom charm, a glow in his eyes!”

Jared lets out a laugh, half role he is playing, half 'Jensen, you're adorable.' True fact, that right there. “Jerk,” he says. “I really couldn’t care less about that guy. Stop changing the subject. You and my sister both need to quit making this about yourselves. You two need to be focused on me, on my feelings right now!” 

“I'm glad you have consented our right to talk about you! Tonight we will discuss the psychological reasons behind your likings of Jensen Ackles. Jealousy? Attraction? We'll let you know of our findings! Things will get ugly after that, for you, anyway, so maybe I'll keep the itinerary to myself...”

Jared chuckles, raises a brow. “The psychological reasoning behind your likings of Jensen Ackles?” he says, and he isn't paying any attention to the arguing couple any more. 

“What?” Jensen drops the character. “I’m a very current and worldly subject.”

“Yeah? So would you say my liking of you is more jealousy or attraction?”

“I’m going to go with some strange combo of the two.”

“Really?” Jared says, leaning in and brushing the tip of his nose up the side of Jensen’s neck. “’Cause I was leaning way more towards attraction.” He ends the statement with a press of his lips against Jensen’s cheek and then pulls away, flashes his dimples. And Jensen just. Yeah. Feels warm all over.

Jared reaches out and grabs Jensen’s arm, stretches it across his lap, palm facing up. He touches the inside of Jensen’s wrist very lightly with the pads of his fingertips, rubs them there in a lazy circle before drawing up to the crook of his elbow and slowly back down. “My mom used to do this for me,” he tells Jensen. “When I’d have trouble falling asleep.” He shrugs. “Sort of have wicked bad insomnia sometimes.”

“That sucks, Jay.” Jensen shivers, the softness of Jared’s touch making him go tingly. “You can call me, you know. Like, any time you want.”

“Yeah?” Jared asks. “Thanks.” He stills his movements against Jensen’s arm. “Do you want me to stop? Sophia used to hate it when I tried to do this to her, said it tickled too much.”

Jensen grabs for Jared’s hand, gives it a tight squeeze. “Don’t stop,” he tells him. 

_Don’t ever stop._

 

** ACT FOUR **

On Monday when the members of Glee Club meet before first bell, “Don't Stop Believin'” is shoved to the front of the line as their next suggested performance piece, and the decision comes pretty quickly. Surprisingly easy, too, considering the last time they all got together to discuss a song itinerary, Genevieve stormed off because, no, they really weren’t going to do “Le Disko” or any other song from Shiny Toy Guns, actually. Making this decision a clear step up for all involved.

And then comes the problems.

“The song is about a _boy_ and a _girl_ ,” Danneel points out, slow and deliberate, a translation for the stupid. “The lyrics aren't exactly vague.”

Jensen runs a hand through his hair, stretching out the knots in his neck. “There's a lot of room for open interpretation and—”

“Bullshit,” interrupts Katie. “You just want the solo.” 

“You _always_ want the solo,” sniffs Genevieve, and suddenly he's got three pissed off girls staring him down just because he assigned himself the first verse and Jared the second and said that maybe everyone else should work on the background and chorus lines.

Jared steps up as some voice of calm and reason. “It's not that big of a deal. Look, one of you can have my part—” 

“What?” says Jensen. Well, shouts, really. Okay, yelps to Jared, with a feeble laugh. “No," he says, turning to the girls. “That's not happening. It's not going to happen.” 

He brings his eyes back to Jared. “You can't just _give up_ your part.”

Jared's like a peace-offering disciple, all slow smiles and shrugged shoulders. “It's just a part, man. I don't mind. Really.”

“Yeah, so in that case,” Chad says, “can we throw it over to me?”

As a mostly collective whole, the group groans. 

“I'm just sayin',” Chad goes on, "everyone else gets a solo, why can't I have one, too?”

Jensen goes for distraction by way of praising. “You get a solo! You get the guitar solo. No one else does. Right? I mean, I'd kill for a... guitar solo. It's pretty awesome.”

“Nice try. I saw you cringe, Ackles.”

“Alright, but that's just because playing an instrument takes away from the real, raw talent of having a good voice, but. That's just one opinion! And it doesn't matter. He's keeping the part.”

Danneel stomps a foot. “This _sucks_. You're a dictator, you know that? Like Pavarotti gone wild.”

Failing to keep up with her logic, Jensen says, “Pavarotti wasn't a dictator.”

“You know what I'm saying! You're like some man-diva all souped up on dictating crack! Lay off! Give someone else a chance.”

Jared offers, “Really, it's not a big deal. Someone else can have it.”

A hand waving mid-air, Chad volunteers, “He- _llo_?”

“It's for a _girl_ ,” Danneel grinds out.

Chad starts to delve into a falsetto, Danneel looks about one second away from handing him a straight-up bitchslap, and Jared shifts on his feet, sending Jensen a pleading look.

Jensen ends the growing commotion with a loud shout and when it gets everyone's attention, he says, as even-voiced as he can manage, “We're going to try it this way. Okay? I know it's a song about a guy and a girl. I know. But. That's just it. That's what everyone expects. Dim the lights, start the music. A guy and a girl get onstage and sing all starry-eyed to each other. I want to do something else. Different. I want to do something that, I don't know! That no one expects. _Make_ something. Push the envelope.”

Chad snorts. “You want to homo this shit up.”

“No!” Jensen is quick to say, aware of how Jared's staring at him, hard. “I mean, uh, no, not... really. It's not about gender, or sex, or—”

“Vaginas?” Genevieve adds helpfully.

Chad cracks up. “Vaginas!” he repeats, like a delighted four-year-old learning a new word.

Katie rolls her eyes. “You guys are all, like. Twelve.”

Genevieve follows her out as she leaves the room.

 

~ ♫~

 

At lunch, Jensen pulls a prosciutto and mozzarella sandwich from his lunch bag and sets it gently on a napkin. Genevieve stares hard at him from across the table as she crunches loudly into an apple. Jared’s shoulders are slumped, bangs hiding his eyes as he stares down at his cafeteria burger. Jensen fidgets, tries to come up with something to say, before sighing, pushing his Terra Vegetable Chips in the direction of Jared’s lunch tray, a peace offering.

“No thanks,” Jared tells him, pushing the bag back Jensen’s way. 

“Jared,” Jensen tries, putting his sandwich down. “Jare, hey, I’m—” 

“’Sup, bottom feeders!” Jensen cringes at the greeting thrown out by Brock, who has appeared out of nowhere and is cackling like some Wicked He-Witch of the West. He’s standing behind Jared, one hand resting casually on his shoulder. Like he has a right to, like it _belongs_ there. Jensen tenses, shoots Brock his most nauseated glare. “Hey, JT,” Brock continues, oblivious, “can you step away from the Freak Scene for a sec. Need to talk to you, man.”

Jared pushes back from his seat, stands up to follow Brock to the other side of the room. Jensen balks, because, _seriously_? He reaches out a hand, clasps it around Jared’s wrist. “Wait,” he starts, rising out of his seat. “You’re not really going after him after he talked to us like that, are you?”

“Jensen.” Jared pushes out a breath, twists out of his grip. “He’s just... that’s just how he is. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Doesn’t _mean_ anything? You’re kidding me. You’re making excuses for him?” 

“He might be an asshole, but he’s also my best friend.”

Jensen scowls, messes his face up, says with his best-mustered disdain, “Right.” Jared nods, turns to leave, and Jensen blurts out, “So you’re choosing him over me.”

Jared pivots, gets in Jensen’s face, balls his fist up in Jensen’s vintage _Les Mis_ t-shirt. “Goddammit, Jensen,” he spits. “Not everything is a _competition_.”

“He’ll try to make you hate me, Jared,” Jensen tells him. “I can’t... I don’t know how to—”

“Yeah, well.” Jared releases Jensen’s shirt, takes a step back. Looks around to see if they’re gathering attention. He lowers his voice under the chatter of the cafeteria hum. “You don’t _have to_. This isn’t the movies, Jensen. There’s not gonna be a rumble after school on the basketball court. We’re not going to make-out at the entrance of the winter formal as glitter confetti streams down and people start up a slow-clap. I’ve known Brock since before I can even remember, okay? I’m not going to choose between the two of you. And yeah, alright, I get it. I know he’ll try to fuck things up between us, but you’ve gotta trust me, I won’t let that happen. I like you. I wanna hang with you. You two going all Mean Girls on each other isn’t going to change that.” 

Jensen opens his mouth to say something, but he just stands there, jaw dropped, nothing coming out. “Look, I’ll catch you later,” Jared says, and Jensen watches him go, the tense line of his shoulders as he crosses the room, where Brock meets him with a clap to the back. 

Genevieve is kind enough to look away as he sits back down, eyes watered up.

 

~ ♫~

 

“Which way sounds more kick-ass?” asks Chad, as he strums two slightly different versions of a riff.

“They both suck,” grumps Jensen, sliding lower into his seat. Choir practice let out fifteen minutes back. Practice without _Jared_ let out fifteen minutes back, and Jensen feels a sharp stab of panic when he starts thinking exactly what Jared’s absence might mean. 

“Whoa dude,” Chad says, slanting him a frown. “Why so harsh?”

“Leave me alone,” Jensen demands, kicking his school bag hard enough that it slides a few feet before coming to rest.

“Right, okay.” Chad forces his guitar into whining out a pitiful moan of despair. He probably thinks he’s too damn funny. “Sorry, man. I don’t keep track of your menstrual cycle.”

“Why didn’t Jared come to practice today?” Jensen blurts out. “Do you think this means he’s quit the team? Do you think this means he’s _never_ coming back? Do you think—” 

“Hey, amigo! Slow down.” Chad puts his guitar aside, wheels closer to Jensen. “It’s just one practice, man.”

“Yeah, but,” Jensen hesitates, not sure how much to share. “We sort of... we got in a fight this afternoon.”

“For real,” Chad asks, eager, “like with fists and crap?”

“Please, as if I am that caveman. No, I leave that sort of junk for his good buddy Brock.” Jensen makes sure to let the name drop from his mouth as if it’s the dog shit on the bottom of his favorite pair of shoes.

“Oh yeah, that guy. Dude’s the dictionary definition of douche.”

“Right?” Jensen says, perking up at his chance to get his bitch on. “And Jared is just standing there _defending_ him while he’s busy calling me all sorts of things that are totally and completely not accurate!”

“Yeah, Jared’s gotta back up his bud.” 

“I know,” Jensen starts, “I mean... what?”

“Gotta stick up for your bros. That’s what you’d do if someone was talkin’ trash about me, right?”

“Uh.”

Chad grins at him, nods, then, “Anyway, Jared’s a real asshole jock, so who cares what he thinks? He probably has more football play diagrams stuffed into that oversized head of his than any real thoughts.”

“That’s not... that’s not what Jared’s like!” Jensen frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “He’s way more than that. He might play sports but he _is_ smart, and kind, and—”

“You’d have his back if someone was spitting smack,” Chad finishes for him.

“Well, yeah,” Jensen says, as if duh, that should be totally obvious.

“There you go. Jared’s just sticking up for his friend. That’s what you do with your dudes. You don’t let anyone else talk them down.” Chad quiets for a second before adding, “If it makes any difference, I overheard him basically spewing an ode to your soul the other day after Brock called you Elton John.”

“He compared me to The Rocket Man?” Jensen questions, pride swelling up, puffing out his chest.

“It was, uh, not a compliment, my friend.” 

“Pfft,” Jensen spits, “in what universe is that _not_ flattery, Chad?”

Chad just laughs, moves back over to his guitar, stretching it across his lap. “You crack me up, Ackles. Point is, Jared and you are buddies, too. He’ll be back.”

Jensen scoots up in his chair, hands gripping the sides of his seat, thinks about what Chad said. “Okay,” he finally agrees, leaning forward, “now tell me more about this so-called ode.”

 

~ ♫~

 

Jensen stands outside the door to Jared’s place like a dumb-ass for about two minutes straight before he gathers his nuts and rings the bell. Jared answers, out of breath, sweat rolling down the bridge of his nose, and goddamn. Jensen swallows, wordless at how attractive he looks right now. T-shirt stretched tight across his chest, track shorts showing off his strong thighs, as he wipes the back of his hand across his brow.

“Is your mom home?” Jensen asks, stupidly, really he should just pay someone to put him out of his misery, already. 

Jared pauses, like he’s considering his options here, his face struggles into deciding on an expression, until a smirking grin wins out. “Really. You lookin’ for my mama, Jensen? ‘Cause you’ll have to come ‘round later. She’s at bingo tonight.” 

“Aw, Jared, come on,” Jensen says, scuffing his toe along the edge of their doormat. “Are you going to let me in?”

“Depends,” Jared says, moving his arms across his chest. “You done being pissed at me?”

“Yes,” Jensen tells him, decidedly. “I just wanted to talk. Are you busy?”

Jared shrugs, pushes his bangs back from his eyes. “Not really, just working out in my room.” He stares at Jensen, thoughtful, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Then, “Come in, okay? Please.”

Jensen feels a swell of relief at the invite and follows Jared back to his bedroom, where he navigates his way around the various weights spread across the carpet before stopping at the edge of Jared’s bed. 

“Sit down,” Jared tells him, breaking the silence and patting the space beside him on the mattress. He hesitates for a moment, as if uncertain, before grabbing Jensen’s hand and rubbing a thumb over his knuckles, soft, long strokes. 

“I’m really sorry,” Jared tells him. “I was rough to you today and you didn’t deserve that.” 

“No, Jared, that’s not. I didn’t come here looking for an apology from you. I’m the one who should be saying sorry. I’m not used to people caring about me. I’m not used to caring about other people so much. And I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I don’t exactly have a lot of friends. I don’t really know how to do this right.” He takes a deep breath, looks up from his lap to meet Jared’s gaze. “I’m sorry. And. I don’t have to sing the lead, either. You should take it. You and Danneel. You guys deserve it.”

“Jensen,” Jared says, kind, and he brings his hand up, strokes along the skin of Jensen’s jaw. Jensen leans into it, leans into him, finds Jared’s lips and kisses him slowly, careful, like it matters. Jared kisses back, opens his mouth and runs his tongue along Jensen’s upper lip. Jensen lets out a sound, low, when Jared nips at him there, bites at him with blunt teeth. 

Jared pulls back, stares at Jensen, eyes moving from his mouth back up to his eyes. He says, “Yeah. Yeah, _Jensen_ ,” as if he’s just been asked the most important question on earth, and then he pushes forward, grabbing at Jensen’s shirt, lifting it up and over his head. 

When they’re both undressed and Jensen’s lined his shoes up by the side of the bed, he takes a long moment to study Jared’s form. He’s never seen his body before, not like this. He’s gorgeous, perfect in every way, and Jensen finds it suddenly difficult to catch his breath. He follows the dips, the curves, from Jared’s collarbone all the way down and back up. When he finds Jared’s face, he sees him staring back, eyes gone dark. Jared's fists are clenched and his breath is coming sharp, short little pants and they haven’t even started yet. 

Jared says, “I gotta...” then grabs at him, forceful, and moves them to the bed, pins Jensen’s body under his own. He doesn’t fool around with going slow, just starts rutting his cock up against Jensen’s, and Jensen bucks beneath him, connects their mouths again. 

Jared pulls back from the kiss, rests his weight on two elbows, says, “Can I, Jensen, I want to put your dick in my mouth. I wanna make you come.” 

“Jay,” Jensen says, moans, as Jared fits himself between Jensen’s thighs, spreads his legs to make room. Jared eyes Jensen's cock for a moment and then moves right in, mouths at the head, soft kisses as he looks up at Jensen, waiting for his approval to go on. Jensen twists his fingers into Jared’s hair, says, “Jared, _yes_.” 

And, oh christ, it is so good. Better than anything, and he has to bite his fist, fighting off the urge to pump up into Jared’s mouth, go off and end it embarrassingly too soon. Jensen needs to think notes, solfège, do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti— _ohh_!

“You know,” Jared says, pulling off his cock, “this is seriously weird with you doing scales.” 

“Fuck, jesus, sorry, just... keep doing that.”

“You like it?”

“Jare, yeah, you feel so good. Your mouth—”

“Want me to...”

“Please, yes, whatever it is, please.” 

Jared smiles at him and moves his mouth back down between Jensen’s legs. Tonguing around the base of Jensen’s cock and then moving down to his balls. He licks across the skin there, wet, long stripes, then sucks one into his mouth, rolling the swollen sac around on his tongue. He sucks hard around him and Jensen keens, bucking his hips up to Jared’s touch. Jared smoothes his thumbs over Jensen’s hipbones, pushes down on them, settles him, then starts humming gently, and Jensen might be near out of his mind gone, but he takes a second to recognize “Electric Feel”. 

Jensen barks out a short, sharp laugh and Jared pulls off of him with a sweet pop. “You want me to suck you,” he asks, then grins, stroking up and down Jensen’s dick with his hand, “here?” 

“Why are you asking me stupid questions?” Jensen says, near-breathless. 

Jared laughs, lowers his head, gathering up the drops of pre-come wetting the slit there, spreading it along the tip of Jensen’s dick with his tongue. Jensen moans, a long series of crescendos that spill from his mouth. Jared pushes farther down, taking more and more of Jensen in. He starts up a rhythm, bringing his mouth down to meet his jacking hand. When he raises his eyes, Jensen tightens the hand he’s got tangled in Jared’s hair. “Oh, god, oh fuck. Oh shit, look at... fuck,” Jensen strangles out, and that’s the only warning he gives before he takes one more look at Jared’s lips stretched over his cock and loses it, humps right up and shoots off in his mouth.

Jared licks his lips, crawls up beside Jensen, who is still trembling, cock twitching with the aftershock. Jared runs his knuckles along the cut of Jensen’s cheekbone. He smiles, plants a quick kiss on the tip of Jensen's nose. “You swear a lot during sex.”

“Fuck yeah, I do!” Jensen gets out, still struggling to regain his breath. “What’s so weird about that?”

“No, it’s not... I like it. Makes me feel nice. Like I’m doing something right.” 

“Mmm,” Jensen says, settling his head in the crook of Jared’s neck. “You totally are.” He brushes a thumb across the peak of Jared’s nipple, laughs when Jared shivers, goosebumps prickling up. “Can I blow you? Is it hard?”

Jared gestures down at his cock, standing firm and blushed-red, ready for attention.

“No, Jare, I mean was giving a blowjob hard to do? On a scale of flute to French horn.” 

“Oh my god, please just go back to cursing.”

“Fuck you.”

Jared smiles, shows teeth. “If you want.” 

 

~~~~♫~~~~

 

“But if you _had to_ pick between having your left nut cut off or me calling you Jenny for the rest of your life, which would you choose?”

There’s twenty minutes until they’re due for rehearsal and _this_ is how Jared wants to use their time? He watches Jared’s eager face, eyebrows drawn up as he nods in anticipation of Jensen’s sure-to-be answer of ‘Jenny’. 

Jensen sighs. Gives in. “In this frightening and highly improbable future world of yours in which someone would cut off one of my testicles, are you still as hot?”

“Damn straight!” Jared crows, flexing his arm in front of Jensen’s face. “I age fine like your daddy’s wine.”

“It’s always real cute when I think back to those days I was afraid of being too much of a dork for you.”

“Don’t front, Jense,” Jared tells him, mock-serious, “You’ll always be too much of a dorkus for the likes of J-Dawg.”

“Yeah,” Jensen drawls, “I’m pretty much one-hundred percent certain you referring to yourself as ‘J-Dawg’ forever seals the theory that I am more awesome than you.”

Jared feigns outrage, makes his hazel eyes go all wide as he slaps a hand against his heart, then smirks, shrugs his shoulders as he opens the door to the choir room and then they both promptly freeze, shocked into place. Because there is Katie. Katie with her gorgeous green eyes and perfect hair and those legs that inspire Jensen to run that much harder on his treadmill every morning. Those legs that are currently draped all over Chad’s lap and her tongue, well, it seems to be shoved pretty damn far down his throat. 

“Oh. My. God.” 

Katie pulls back, makes a noise that sounds something like a high-pitched Chihuahua, and scurries off Chad, straightening her skirt. “I… don’t… you guys… I’m… he’s…”

“Sex on wheels!” Chad finishes for her, flashing her a quick wink and a thumbs up. 

Jared nudges Jensen with his shoulder, amused at catching the two of them going at it. “Does Genevieve know about this?” he asks.

“Genevieve?” Katie asks slowly, scowl firmly set and eyebrows raised in Chad’s direction. “God! Is there anybody in our incestuous little club who _isn’t_ hooking up?”

“Uh.” Jensen meets Jared’s eyes. Surely she can’t be directing this accusation at _them_. He shrugs and Jared looks away, suddenly very busy with scratching at the back of his neck. 

“Right,” Katie tells them, drawing out the word. “Anyway,” she says, turning back to Chad, “Genny?” 

Chad’s laughing, tugging at the hem of Katie’s skirt as she tries to pull away. “He means you, Kate,” he tells her. “Genevieve is totally dying to dyke-out on you!” 

“It’s pretty obvious,” Jensen adds.

Katie pauses, expression pulling from bitter to amused. “Well, well,” she says, “I guess that explains the time she asked if I would make-out with her for practice, then.” 

Chad chokes and spurts, rolling forward in his chair. “What!?” 

“I thought she was looking for some pointers so she didn’t embarrass herself with whatever guy she was crushing on.” Katie shrugs, easy, as if this is something friends ask of each other all the time. Who knows, maybe it is. Girls are weird.

“So, uh, did you?” asks Jared. His expression reads equal parts eager and properly ashamed.

Katie raises a brow, slants him a knowing look. “I’ll leave that up to you perverts to decide while you’re drifting off to sleep tonight.”

“Screw that,” crows Chad. “I’m going to be thinking of it _all_ night long.” 

Katie just shakes her head, platinum blonde hair settling precisely back into place, then grabs her purse. “I need to grab my sheet music from my locker.”

“I’ll come with,” Jensen offers quickly, desperate to escape what is sure to be an entirely gross monologue from Chad on his sexual prowess as soon as she leaves the room. 

Katie keeps up a constant stream of chit-chat as they make their way down the hall. Surely aiming to avoid any questions Jensen might have as to how it feels to lose one’s mind.

She’s still going strong as she digs through her locker and Jensen nods along, amused. He looks up as footsteps carry down the corridor and catches Brock’s eye as he makes his way towards them, hand latched firmly onto Sophia’s, her books shoved under his right arm. 

Sophia spots him and brushes him off with a roll of her eyes. But even though it looks like it pains him on several levels—mostly the level which houses his soul—Brock gives him a tight smile and a quick nod. This Jensen considers a definite upgrade to the silent glares Brock's been handing out in Lit class. 

“Come on,” Katie tells him. “I need a makeup fix.” She holds the door open for Jensen as they reach the girls’ bathroom, tilts her head like, _I won’t tell if you don’t._

“So,” he says, watching her careful movements in the mirror, “seriously though. Chad?”

Katie shrugs, blots her lipstick. “He’s a good listener,” she tells him. “Around here, that’s a pretty hard find. There’s also this amazing thing he does with his hands—”

“No! I will sing naked in front of the entire cheerleading squad if you do not finish that sentence.”

“Whatever.” She brushes an invisible piece of nothing from her chiffon top. Jensen breathes a sigh of relief, there are some things about Chad Murray he never needs to know. 

“Shit,” she says, riffling through her purse, “I’m all out of honey drops.”

“We’ll stop by my locker. I have a stash.”

Katie looks up at him. She smiles fondly, says, “You’re not all bad, Jensen Ackles. I might even miss you next year.” She scrunches up her face and holds her thumb and index finger an inch apart. “Little bit.”

Jensen barks out a quick laugh. Thinks of the hours they’ve spent together over the past two years—she’s partnered with him on most the songs—and how he never bothered to really get to know her. Give her a chance. He wants to tell her he’ll miss her too. Didn’t even realize it until right this second, but he will. He blurts it out as, “You were amazing on “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off”. I mean. I really liked singing that with you.” Katie places her compact back in her purse, pulls the zipper closed, and beams at him. 

So, okay, Jensen’s not awesome at making friends. But it’s a start. 

 

~♫~ 

 

“Okay, guys,” says Mr. Morgan. “Get it together. Chad, wipe that sorry-looking grin off your face.”

Danneel quickly scoots over to the stool set-up in the middle of the stage and sits down, gingerly crossing her legs. Chad’s positioned next to her, and give or take a few inches, it gives the illusion that they are the same height. Both hold their mics in hand.

Beneath his breath, Chad says, “Don't scribble messed up shit about me when I make you look weak. My voice is top-notch awesome, sorry.”

Out the side of her mouth, but wearing a stretched, forced smile, she answers, “Step on my notes and I'll have your dick. And not in the way you think of when you jerk-off at night.”

Mr. Morgan rubs his eyes. “I can _hear_ you. We _all_ can hear you. You're holding _mics_.”

“Right!” Chad yells. “Sound-check! One, one. Check, mic. Check two.”

“Just start the music!” Mr. Morgan bellows, and cues the audio department.

The intro to “Don’t Start Believin’” surges from the speakers and Jensen joins Jared and the rest of the backing vocalists on the lead-in harmony before Chad picks up the first verse. Danneel is swaying in her seat, grinning at Chad as he sings earnestly in her direction. She leans towards him, rocks her shoulders to the beat, as she starts up the second verse. 

Jensen turns his head, his eyes find Jared’s and hold there. Jared is belting out the notes, body bopping up and down, and then he smiles at Jensen, eyes crinkling up, singing out the side of his mouth. The chorus hits and Jensen feels it. Goosebumps pricking up on his skin. And it’s like he _gets_ it. God, he finally gets it.

Being part of this team means there is no second string. 

 

~~~~ ♫~~~~ 

 

Jensen ducks into the Padalecki family room, catches sight along the way of that beloved, framed photo of Jared with his childhood hero, the lawn-spraying guy. It makes him smile to himself, remembering. How long ago it feels since he first saw it, how even then he could tell how much it meant.

“So,” Jared says, pulling his guitar out of its case on the floor. They're sitting beside each other on the couch with enough space between them that Jared can hike up a leg, angle his body so that he's turned towards Jensen, the guitar sitting in his lap. Jared gives him a shy, enamored smile, head ducked down. “I have this song,” he picks at a string, makes a note hum out, “that I wanted, uh, to play. For you. So I'm just going to do that before I say something stupid instead.”

“Like “Sex on Fire” deserved that Grammy over Radiohead?”

“Jensen, c’mom, would you just let me—”

Jensen pushes Jared in the shoulder, flashes him a teeth-filled grin. “Alright, okay. Serenade me, Casanova.”

Shaking his head, Jared exhales, peeks up at Jensen again, then starts to play. The song starts off slow and heavy, like it's building up to something. When Jared starts to sing, Jensen stops watching Jared's fingers on the strings of his guitar. Stares at him instead, bowled over by how easy Jared makes it all seem. How talented and amazing he is.

Then Jared looks him in the eyes, holds his gaze to force this emotional connection. All while singing lyrics that have Jensen's mind spinning into overdrive with the meaning of it all. Something lets go inside of Jensen, this release. This wall he's had built up. Jared's singing to him, he's singing him this incredible song, and here, now, Jensen feels closer to Jared than he's ever felt to anyone before. Like Jared's sharing something really important with him. Like it's just for them.

When he sings the last note, Jensen's heart has dropped into his stomach, skittering like crazy.

And then Jared clears his throat. “Well, that was. It. The song.”

Finally finding his voice, Jensen breathes out, “Wow.”

Jared lets out this relieved, happy sigh. “You liked it?”

“Jared, that was incredible! The way you perfectly hit that middle C! And the lyrics provided just the right sentimental balance.”

Like he can't tell if this is a compliment or not, Jared laughs. “Thanks? It took me, I don't know, like two weeks for it to all come together.”

“You _wrote_ that? That was an original?”

“Uh, yeah. I thought you knew. I thought I mentioned—”

“The lyrics,” he fishes, narrowing his eyes, “those were obviously written about someone you had feelings for. Maybe Sophia, or a weird but adored lawn care guy, or—” 

“You, you idiot?” 

“You wrote that song for _me_?”

“Well, yeah.”

Jensen pushes up and off the couch, overwhelmed.

Jared sets his guitar aside. “Jensen?”

“You wrote me a song,” he says, dropping back down and just full-on pointing out the super obvious.

Jared chuckles. “I did, I wrote you a song. C'mon,” he tips forward, catches Jensen's eyes, “fess up, that basically makes me the perfect boyfriend, doesn't it? I'm perfect. Because, wait,” Jensen's closing the gap between them, hearts in his eyes, and Jared holds up a point-to-make finger, “you toss in my kick-ass pancake making skills, and I'm the pinnacle of awesome, with, _you're welcome_ , bonus ripped abs. There's no way to top me. None!”

“Jared,” Jensen says, this rumble of sound from his chest. Jared shrugs a shoulder, grins, then tugs his lower lip into his mouth. And Jensen goes all pleased and stoked and in love. He wants to say, _I thought I needed the whole world to love me. I only needed you. You. You are what makes me happy._ Instead, he slides closer, jokes, “Oh, I’m thinking of a few crazy-sexy ways I can top you right now.”

Jared groans, shakes his head, then leans in to chuckle against Jensen’s shoulder. He lifts his gaze and meets Jensen’s eyes, his expression going soft at whatever it is he finds there. Jensen closes the inches between them, kisses Jared’s lips until he opens up, slipping his tongue inside Jensen’s mouth. Jensen’s heart is beating a too-quick rhythm in his chest. His brain is stuck on this loop of Jared’s name. _Jared. Jared. Jare._ His stomach goes liquid as warmth floods through him, racing to heat up his skin, make him flush. 

Jared pulls away first, leaves his forehead leaning against Jensen's for a long, drawn out, taking-it-all-in second, their breaths mingling, before he backs off the couch.

All Jensen can manage is a lot of mouth flapping, and then, “Hey, wait, what—?” because he's pretty sure they weren't finished. He's got a rather large bulge in his pants that argues just that.

Jared shakes loose the curtains of the big bay window they're pretty much groping each other in front of, grabs hold of each side. “Neighbors,” he explains. “Nosy neighbors. Don't wanna shock Mrs. Boyce into a stroke. Now,” he turns back around, “where were we?” 

He grins at Jensen, drags the curtains closed. 

**THE END!**

♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♮ ♯ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♮ ♯ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♮ ♯ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♮ ♯ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♮ ♯ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♮ ♯ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♮ ♯


End file.
